


To Save A Life

by Aelys_Althea



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Depression, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Recovery, Violence, post s5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 22:28:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5223341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelys_Althea/pseuds/Aelys_Althea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With a sudden, unexpected jerk from death into life, Arthur was drawn from the depths of his stasis and thrust into a world of chaos and unfamiliarity. Surrounded by strangers and a city he doesn't know, Arthur is drawn onward into an unfamiliar world by only one thing: a voice, a command, and an urgent sense of desperation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters from this story belong to the BBC, the makers of the magical series of Merlin, and the companies and individuals working in conjunction to make it. I make no profit from my efforts.
> 
> WARNING: this series contains graphic depictions of violence and attempted suicide. If you think this may be a trigger, please do not read.

It was her voice that brought him back, drawing him from the stasis he blissfully dwelled.

 

_…wake…wake! You must awaken NOW! Wake, King, you are needed!_

 

Again. And again. And again. Cry after desperate cry.

 

Slowly, gradually, awareness crept upon him. The cocoon of warmth receded, the cold encroaching. Throbbing begun as an insistent beat in his temples alongside a murmur of sound seeping into his ears. The crisp air pervaded his nostrils, sharp and chilling, until suddenly –

 

_THUMP-THUMP-THUMP!_

A fierce pounding. Physical blows beat onto his chest as though he was being kicked by a horse. Incredibly heavy, the weight pressed down again and again, replacing the ethereal voice that thrummed, not through his ears, Arthur realised, but from somewhere deeper. Dimly, another buzz of words could be heard, fading gradually into understanding.

 

“…come on, come on, breathe, come on, mate, come _on_ …”

 

In tandem with the pounding, those words chanted like a litany. A strange voice, in a strange accent. It rung in Arthur’s ears, echoes drowning out the woman’s voice, growing louder and louder as her own gradually died.

 

In a moment before the woman’s voice finally failed Arthur heard it. Another voice, deeper, larger, heavier. Like the grumble of a giant beast. It settled upon him like a swaddling blanket.

 

_I leave him to you. Please, lead him. And hurry!_ And her voice disappeared.

 

“Breathe, mate, _come on_!”

 

Air flooded his lungs. With a rushing inhalation, Arthur gasped. His chest inflated and he convulsed in a tremor of heaving coughs. The horse stopped stomping on his chest and the litany of accented words ceased with an audible sigh of relief.

 

Gasping, panting, Arthur sucked at the air with the urgency of a drowning man. It both hurt and eased his pain with each rushing rasp down his throat. Finally, with a Herculean effort, he peeled his eyes open. Light scattered blindingly across his face and he immediately closed them again. It took moments of rapid blinking before he could finally manage to squint them open once more.

 

The world settled gradually around him. The pain in Arthur’s chest was horrendous, his throat ached, and every muscle was only slowly hushing its screams from heartfelt cries of distress. Turning his head on the cold, hard ground, Arthur trained his squinting eyes upon the figure kneeling beside him.

 

It was a man, that much Arthur could tell. A man, strangely dressed in colours of bright orange and blue and green, with a wonky hat atop his head. Arthur immediately thought him to be a jester. Or perhaps an eccentric gypsy. He was illuminated by little white-light torches swaying over his shoulder and glaringly bright. It took Arthur a moment to realise that people held the blinding lights aloft in their hands. More oddly dressed people in painfully clashing colours. Some even had their hair coloured in horridly bright shades. There must have been over half a dozen of them, all peering at him worriedly.

 

The closest man, the jester one who looked halted in the process of leaning forward over him, cocked his head questioningly. A frown settled on his face.

 

“You right there, mate?”

 

His voice; he was definitely the man who had spoken before, but it was strange seeing him speak. The words sounded unfamiliar, and as Arthur watched his lips move, squinting into the sharply illuminated darkness, there was a slight delay. As though the sound wavered in the air between them before filtering into his ears, taking a few seconds to reach him and make themselves comprehensible.

 

Struggling feebly, Arthur levered himself to sitting. In an instant, a multitude of hands reached forwards to assist him. Or to attempt to urge him to lie down again, Arthur wasn’t sure which. There seemed to be some indecision on the subject.

 

“Whoa, whoa, slow down there. Take it easy,” the jester man cautioned. Again the slight delay from the movement of his mouth to comprehension, but Arthur hardly noticed this time. “Slow steps, zombie man.”

 

Frowning at the words, Arthur squinted up at the man. “Zom…bie?” His tongue felt heavy and awkward in his mouth, his voice a croak, but apparently he was audible enough.

 

The jester and his fellows nodded fervently. “We thought you were dead, man.”

 

“You weren’t breathing any more,” another man added, wincing sympathetically in a way that caused his tall hat to wobble.

 

“Your heart stopped too,” a woman with bright pink hair continued.

 

“If you’re gonna wear fancy dress to a lakeside party, you might want to steer clear of knight-in-actual-armour get up. Something a little lighter, maybe. That floats,” a woman suggested, crossing her arms over her glittering and flashing dress that showed far too much ankle. It came almost to her knees.

 

“It’s alright, though. We brought you back.” That was the first man again, a beaming smile spreading across his face. Apparently, with the excitement of the moment dying, pride rose to fill its place. The jester man glanced over his shoulder. “See, Brian, I told you that CPR training would come in handy. I’m a verified doctor!”

 

There was a smattering of laughter punctuated by groans of exasperation. Muttered words of “keep dreaming, Johnny,” and “think it takes a little more than one miracle to be a real lifesaver”, were spoken with more affection then reprimand.

 

Arthur swept his eyes over them in confusion. Brought him back to life? What…?

 

And then he remembered. Something. Before he had closed his eyes, before he had fallen into sleep… no, not sleep. He’d died. He’d been stabbed, Mordred had stabbed him, and then… then Merlin had…

 

Arthur had died. He’d died in Merlin’s arms.

 

Everything past that was only a warm, dark cavern of silence and stillness.

 

What… had happened?

 

_King. You must hurry._

 

Starting, Arthur glanced towards the group of motley dressed jesters beside him. They were talking with increasing volume, in a smattering of words that were both heavily accented and slightly slurred in a way that Arthur suspected may have been induced by at least partial drunkenness.

 

But no, none of them had spoken the words. He should have realised immediately. That wide, deep, blanketing presence, _that_ was the source of the voice. Some unseeable source, distant and yet somehow _here_. It was unfamiliar, vast and powerful. Arthur wasn’t sure if the voice belonged to a man or a woman. It was both and neither. It was…

 

Inhumane?

 

What…? Who…?

 

_Hurry, King. You must hurry. Leave, now!_

 

Like a hook sinking into his gut and hauling him into motion, Arthur abruptly felt the overwhelming urge to _move_.

 

It was an effort, even more than it had been to open his eyes, but at least the ache in his muscles was slowly dying. With a bunching of his legs, a thrust of his arms, Arthur pushed himself to his feet.

 

“Whoa, whoa! Slow down, mate, you’ve only just returned to the land of the living!” The first jester man’s words were echoed by his fellows who stumbled to their own feet in a shambling impression of Arthur’s rise. Yes, they were definitely drunk.

 

“I… I’m alright,” Arthur assured them, raising his hands in placation. He caught sight of his own arms, pale and clothed only in his undergarments. Dripping wet, they were, as were his breeches. Like being suddenly struck by a wave of cold water, Arthur felt a chill seep into his bones. An instant later, shivers set in.

  
Cold. It was _very_ cold. A glance around him explained the iciness falling upon him; it was snowing. Or at least it had snowed. Ice crusted wilted grass, turning green to bright whiteness and freezing the lake – more like a large pond, really – beside him almost solidly except for a mushy mass of broken slush upon the banks. Each ragged breath Arthur breathed fogged before him. He hadn’t even noticed –

 

_King, you must hurry. Go now!_

  
The inhuman voice thundered in Arthur’s head, almost painfully deafening. He winced, raising shivering fingers to his temple. Cold, tired, aching and assaulted by an unknown voice. What a brilliant way to – how had the jester man phrased it? – return to the land of the living.

 

“Aw, shit, sorry mate. You must be freezing.” The man, his self-proclaimed rescuer, started as though only just realising the cold. He didn’t appear particularly well dressed himself, but Arthur suspected that drink had likely warmed his blood as much as it clouded his senses. He didn’t reprimand the man for his foolishness, however; rather, he was grateful to him when a brief, broken discussion between the wavering group produced a thick coat of some heavy, furred material that didn’t smell like skins but felt nearly as warm. “Here you go.”

 

Arthur hesitated in taking the coat only for a moment, but the voice in his head and the tugging in his gut became more insistent, more demanding. _Go, now, hurry, you must hurry…_ He had to leave, and the extra layers would be welcomed in what appeared to be the coldness of winter. He quickly shrugged it onto his shoulders. “You have my thanks.”

 

“No problem. You look like you needed – hey! Wait! Where are you going?!”

 

The words followed Arthur as he turned from the group and broke into a lumbering jog in the opposite direction. In the direction urged by the tugging in his gut, the insistent demands ringing in his mind. He didn’t reply to the jester man’s calls, or his fellows. All of his attention was abruptly focused on the direction of his flight.

 

“Hey, wait!”

 

“You should rest!”

 

“Mate, I think you need to go to a hospital or something...”

 

“… could really use some help…”

 

Gradually the voices died. Slowly, as Arthur put more and more distance between himself and his apparent rescuers. With every pace, the aches in his muscles seemed to ease and within minutes he was leaping in great strides, steps chewing up the distance as he powered in the direction of… something.

 

_Hurry, King. You’ve not much time. You must hurry!_

 

He knew not where he was going, nor what he ran towards, but the coaxing drew him on to speeds that bordered on flight. Even the heavy darkness that fell upon him as the lights of the white, handheld torches flickered into distant non-existence could not stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi everyone! I hope you enjoyed the first chapter (short as it was - they should be getting longer after this one, I think). If you would, please take a moment to share your thoughts, comments, questions or suggestions. Thank you!


	2. Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: depictions of blood and gore ahead. If you don't like it, then please don't read. Or at least read cautiously.

The city Arthur seemed to fall into was a sea of mayhem.

 

People were everywhere. They wove amongst one another in a stumbling, crazed dance that held little finesse yet not a one appeared to care. Many were brightly dressed and shining in gaudy and glittering colours – though none quite as flamboyant as his ‘rescuers’ – while others dressed in more muted tones, dark and practical for the cold.

 

Regardless of their garb, all seemed to be making merry. Festive. Excited. They waved miniature flags Arthur couldn’t recognise and kerchiefs in alarmingly bright colours, and there was a general atmosphere of uproar, of mania. The streets were clogged more thickly than those of Camelot at Beltane. People were crushed in upon one another like fish in a barrel, laughter bellowing and shouts slurring drunkenly. No one seemed to care that attempted steps were more likely to conclude in falling face-first into another person as they were to taking a stride forwards.

  
The city was unfamiliar, and not just for the people and their strange clothing, their chaotic intensity. Incredibly tall buildings lined wide, smooth roads slicked by ice. Large, sprawling houses with expansive garden fronts interspersed them at odd intervals. What appeared to be stationary carriages or carts of some kind similarly lined the roads. They didn’t look like any carts that Arthur had ever seen before, but they had wheels – very _odd_ wheels – and there were people _climbing out of them._ He couldn’t fathom what they could otherwise be.

 

The sound of music fought against the gales of laughter for sheer volume, music unlike any Arthur had heard before and blaringly crass with little finesse. It poured from doors that sat open, beaming vivid yellow light onto huddles of people that clustered around them and illuminating the ice and snow on the road into a warm gold. That same light beamed from strange, thick metal posts that dotted the roadside, stretching high overhead and radiating brightness like miniature suns.

 

They shed light, because light…

 

Light was everywhere, despite the fact that it was clearly in the depths of night. Not only from the loud doorways, it radiated from the windows of buildings tall and short, from eerie miniature, green-white torches that looked like will o’ the wisps, and most astoundingly, from the flowers that appeared and bloomed in vibrant cracks in the sky, unfurling their petals before fading into non-existence. Mixed colours of pink, white, yellow, blue and green, and in a surplus of shapes exploded overhead with sharp, popping cracks that deafened Arthur’s ears.

 

Magic. It had to be magic.

 

It was overwhelming. Or it would have been overwhelming, had Arthur not been possessed by the equally overwhelming urge to _move! Hurry! You must hurry!_ and drawn ever onwards by the compulsive loping strides of his own legs. He wasn’t sure where he went, but the desperate need erased any questioning on his part, the half-formed thoughts of _what_? and _where_?

 

He had to hurry. He had to be _there_.

 

There was no misdirection in Arthur’s quest. He never wavered from the path before him. Despite the lack of any sort of signs or indications of guidance, he waded through the thick knots of people jamming the road and slid around the slick walls of the carriages just to _get past_. The voices around him were a confusion of sounds, not even words until he actively sought to train his attention briefly upon a speaker in particular. The scant few times he did, not even pausing in his flight to offer the individual a quick, perfunctory scan, the words didn’t make sense.

 

“Happy New Year, Glastonbury!”

 

“Millen-i-um!”

 

“The clocks have changed and disaster has not struck. Hallelujah!”

 

No sense. No sense at all. But Arthur didn’t care. He didn’t need to understand. He needed to be _there_.

 

 _You are moving to slowly, King. You must hasten, before it is too late_!

  
There was no irritation in the deep, resounding voice, no reprimand. Urgency overlaid even the faint tinge of frustration, an urgency that caused Arthur to, indeed, hasten his step further. He didn’t know what was so urgent – there didn’t appear to be any immediate threats around him; far from it if the general good humour of those around him was any indication – but the desperate need infected him like the plague, steadfast and unshakeable.

 

Arthur ignored the creak of his joints as they worked themselves into motion. They felt like old door hinges being swung into use after years of neglect, each step adding oil that eased the strained tension, making his strides easier and easier. He had warmed, too, despite the dampness of his garments under the thick borrowed coat and the chill of the icy air. His chest heaved in foggy pants of exertion that he had only ever experienced after hours of drills and sword practice, but they didn’t slow him.

 

Gradually, as he continued to run, pushing through the crowds that filled the streets, he drew away from the hubbub. It became quickly apparent as he wove through quieter passer-byers that the thick mass of people had flooded the central streets of the city and that those he now ran down were reserved for quieter establishments. They looked more like residences that shop fronts or inns that blared ugly music. There wasn’t as much light, either, save for the odd, thin cracks beaming through shutters – no, not shutters. These buildings had _windows_. Of _glass_.

 

What an indulged, excessively wealthy city. If Arthur had not been so focused, so fixated, he would have marvelled.

 

Not even the odd pedestrian could be seen when Arthur finally skidded to a stop before one building in particular. Before _the_ building. It was square, blockish and relatively tall, perhaps five floors in total. The smooth outer walls were built of stone cut into remarkably small and perfectly identically sized bricks. Only three windows – that reduced to two as he watched – beamed yellow light into the darkness of the surrounding night. There was no loud music thudding from the walls of that building.

 

And yet… It seemed to thrum in a similar way to music, pulsing insistently on a bone-deep level reminiscent of the deep voice that still urged Arthur to hasten throughout every corner of his mind. He paused only briefly to stare with detached wonder at the building – though it was relatively simple compared to some of those he’d passed in the busier streets, it was still wondrous for its foreignness – before his eyes switched to scanning the outer walls for a door.

 

He had to get in there. He knew it.

 

There was one door on the ground floor, at the top of a short, narrow case of stone steps. Without a second thought, Arthur jogged towards it, grasping the door handle – metal, matte silver and icy to the touch – and jiggling it. The door didn’t budge.

 

Growling beneath his breath in frustration, Arthur put his shoulder to the door and pushed his weight upon it. It didn’t budge; made of thick wood, the door didn’t even waver under the pressure. Another growl and a stronger jamming of his shoulder made no greater impact, nor the subsequent attempts or even full-body kicks.

 

Taking a step back, panting heavily once more, Arthur planted his hands on his hips and glared at the door. He could knock, he supposed, but if someone hadn’t noticed his attempts to force his way through the door he doubted a polite tap of his knuckles would alert them. There was not even a no hanging bell, the likes of which he’d seen were sometimes used for purposes of announcement in Mercia.

 

_You must hurry!_

  
“I can’t!” Arthur seethed, turning his growl upon the voice that pervaded his thoughts. “The door won’t budge!”

 

 _So find another way in. Quickly, you’ve not much time_.

 

“Another way?!” Arthur gave the door another kick, frustration setting his blood boiling. He didn’t even know why he had to get into the building, only that the need was great. It didn’t even matter that the urgency was impressed upon him by an unknown source. He _had to get inside_. “What other way? Tell me!”

 

_Around the side of the building. There are stairs. Run, King, you must run._

 

He did. Arthur spun on his heel, launched down the stone steps leading to the door in one leap and sped around the side of the building. The tall posts with their torches beaming along the roadside illuminated a small alley between the side of the building and its neighbour. Arthur slipped into the darkened space, weaving around sacs made of some dark, shiny material that smelt pungent and discarded boxes holding shadowed and broken objects. He barely paid them any heed, eyes instead squinting ahead into the suddenly deeper darkness. The afterimage of light hung suspended in irritating firefly-flickers before his eyes.

 

About halfway down the alley, Arthur nearly ran headlong into the stairs. The sort-of stairs, really, for he’d never seen anything like them before. They were made of metal, of bars welded closely together, and the rising steps crossed back and forth over the top of one another as they stretched overhead rather than rising in a spiral or a straight flight. It was a little unnerving, to think that it could reach so high with nothing but thin metal bars and air beneath it, but Arthur’s resolution – and the demands of the voice in his head – disregarded any uneasiness.

 

Besides, he was a knight before he was a king. He wasn’t fearful of such dangers. And if the admittedly dubious-looking stairs were to collapse, he’d most likely simply fall onto the lower level. Nothing to worry about.

 

Quickly climbing the stairs to the harsh clatter and jangleof metal on metal, Arthur felt the insistent thumping of his heart in his chest elevate further. The hook in his gut seemed to swell and he knew without being told that he was nearing his destination.

 

The top floor had a window at the side of the stair. Not a door; a window, of dirty glass and grey-white frame, positioned as though people were expected to climb _through the window_ to access the room beyond. That it was made of glass was fortunate, however, if Arthur had to break his way in. And he would, if he had to.

 

As it turned out, he didn’t have to. The window was unlocked, and after a brief moment of fumbling and jiggling, resolutely avoiding looking down at the empty space beneath his feet, and Arthur slid it open. It caught and jammed a couple of times, as though it hadn’t been opened recently, but he forced the opening wide enough for him to slip through.

 

Inside, the room was dark. Shapes of what Arthur could only assume was furniture cast slightly deeper shadows, the only indication of their presence. Stepping forward quietly – a thin rug beneath his feet smothered any scuffing his sodden boots may have made – Arthur kept his hands upheld before him, relying on touch rather than sight to direct his movements. Something soft and smooth, something hard and wooden with polished edges, something cold and metallic.

 

The room was cold, nearly as cold as it was outside, but stagnant, as though nothing had disturbed it for quite some time. Or nothing substantial, anyway. Everything was silent, making Arthur’s muffled footsteps sound discomfortingly loud.

 

_Quickly! You must act quickly!_

 

“What? Where?” Arthur asked, casting his gaze around the darkened room. The feeling in his belly, the demanding tug, had subsided almost completely and Arthur was left slightly bewildered in its aftermath.

 

The voice in his head didn’t indicate further, however, subsiding itself to a muted grumbling that bordered on barely restrained panic. Arthur frowned. Something was wrong; the voice that for whatever reason he simply knew he had to heed was writhing in distress. And he couldn’t determine just what –

 

Until he noticed the light. A faint light, and only visible when Arthur had taken a handful of steps into the room. The same bright yellow light that radiated from the posts outdoors, from the loud music rooms, from the windows of the buildings he’d passed. It spilled along a horizontal crack along the floor as though seeping from beneath a door.

  
Which it was, Arthur realised, hastening towards it. Which was apparently the right decision to make as even the grumbling of the voice in his head silenced.

 

The door was closed, a plain, flat structure of smooth wood and a simple door knob. It was too dark to make out anything further, even with the scant light creeping from beneath the crack, but Arthur didn’t need to anyway. Whatever reason he was there in the dark room, for whatever purpose, it lay beyond that door. He knew it.

 

The door swung open to reveal a room of glistening light. Arthur immediately squinted, raising a hand to protect his eyes from the painful glare. It took precious moments for his vision to adjust, and blinking rapidly he took in the room. White. Everything was made up of almost pure whiteness; the floor, the walls, the ceiling. In the centre of that ceiling was a torch like those atop the metal posts on the roadside, too bright to study acutely.

  
Arthur quickly turned his attention to the rest of the room, casting a quick scan of the furnishings and feeling his high-strung nerves loosen slightly as he determined there was no immediate danger. His assessment swept across the room once more.

  
A seat; a strange seat, similarly white with a hole in the centre, which seemed rooted to the shiny white floor.

 

A matching white basin atop a white stand that also appeared grounded.

 

The theme of white continued to a tub, perched atop little white feet and nearly as large as Arthur’s own back in Camelot and in the tub –

 

A man. A young man, slumped as though asleep, leaning against one end with his head flopped onto his shoulder. Long, shaggy tufts of black hair dripped wetly down his face, across closed eyes and dribbling down ghostly white skin, over sharp, high cheekbones.

 

Arthur gasped, starting in his objective assessment of the situation. Familiar. The young man was familiar. He was… he was –

 

“ _Merlin_.”

 

He started across the room, sighing in a mixture of relief, exasperation and amusement. The thought of ‘what on earth was he doing sleeping in the bath?’ was quickly followed by ‘was it Merlin’s voice that had called him to the building?’ How strange; Arthur had known, had been made aware for the last few days, of his friend and servant’s sorcerer status, but his unconscious acceptance… Strange.

 

The slowly building joy, however, was abruptly cut short as the reality of the situation became apparent in a wash of colours, realised only when Arthur was close enough to see the water.

 

No, it wasn’t _colours_. One colour. A deep, dark, ugly red.

 

The bath seemed filled with it, as though Merlin bathed in wine instead of water. It stained his skin and clotted along the underside of a single arm that hung over the side of the tub. An arm that flopped limply like the loosened limb of a discarded puppet. He didn’t know how he’d missed it; the wound streaking Merlin’s pale skin suddenly seemed to be the focus of the room.

 

Arthur’s vision dimmed and he didn’t process the frantic moments that launched him fully across the room to fall on his knees beside the tub. He was simply there when conscious thought reasserted itself and reaching out to Merlin’s arm, shaking his shoulder, touching his face. His skin was cold, colder even than Arthurs shivering fingers.

 

“Hey. Hey! Merlin, wake up. Are you alright? You’re alright, _please_ be alright.”

 

Voice rising in a mindless string of words that he barely heard, Arthur slapped insistently on Merlin’s cheeks, praying desperately for him to awaken. To no avail, however, and in a moment of loss Arthur dropped his eyes to the blood bath. To Merlin’s arms slick with streaks of redness. His eyes narrowed as fury set in.

 

Had he been attacked? Had someone _attacked_ Merlin? For that was the only explanation Arthur could find for the long, deep cuts slicing up one – no, _both_ forearms with careful precision. Cuts that still pulsed dribbles of blood at the horribly slowed pace. And if that blood, all that blood, was from Merlin…

 

It was morbidly amazing that he was even still alive. Arthur had to check, then double check, for a pulse in Merlin’s neck just to be sure. It held barely a butterfly’s flutter of force.

 

Fury like that Arthur had rarely experienced coursed through him. On par with his anger towards Mordred. Towards Morgana for her betrayal, for everything she’d done. Towards Morgause, to Nimueh, towards any and every foe he’d felt threatened by. Greater than the seething rage which had gripped him when he’d discovered Merlin had magic, a force which had been strong and nearly overpowering even when he stood at death’s door.

 

Someone had _attacked_ Merlin and left him for dead and, by God, if Arthur ever found them they’d wish they had never dared.


	3. Frenzy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you commenters!! I loved hearing from you!   
> If anyone has a moment, I'd really appreciate you leaving a word down the bottom; question, comments and (hopefully not) criticisms if they apply would be great!

Arthur didn’t think. He just acted.

 

Stripping the acquired coat off his shoulders, Arthur quickly cast it across the cool, hard white floor as makeshift padding. An instant later, he’d slipped his arms beneath Merlin’s and with a heave had drawn him from the bloody water. It was easy; too easy, Arthur noted distantly. Merlin was too light for someone of his height. He’d always been just slightly taller than Arthur himself, if less broad, but he weighed less than a man a head shorter rightly should.

 

Lowering Merlin onto the floor, cradling him gently in some unexpected fear of letting him go, Arthur paused only briefly for his mind to jump to the next stage of action-response. Bandages. He needed bandages. Something, anything, to stem the flow of the bleeding. A flow that was rapidly draining Merlin of what looked to be the little that still kept him alive.

 

Glancing around him, Arthur spied a single white towel hanging next to… a robe, yes, it looked like a robe, though fluffier than he was used to. Another split second of indecision he reluctantly lowered Merlin fully to the ground and tugged them both to the floor. The towel could be used as bandages well enough, and he hastened to tear the thick fabric into strips; quite a feat, really, considering how reluctant it seemed to _bloody tear_.

 

With rapid movements, ignoring the slight shaking of his hands, Arthur wound Merlin’s arms in firm, tight bandaging. Within moments the bandages were stained by dark splodges of red, like blood splattered across fresh snow. He felt his jaw clench as he distractedly ran his eyes over his friend, his anger rising once more at the evidence of the wounds. Wound that were, Arhur had no doubt, on the verge of killing him.

 

And yet… it was more than that. More than the deep gouges decorating his forearms. Merlin looked sick – very sick – in a way that Arthur had never seen before.

 

There was a reason Merlin had seemed so light. He was thin, painfully so, his long limbs almost skeletal with wrist and anklebones protruding sharply and ribs visible along either side of his chest. But it was more even than that, more than just sickly thinness. His skin was pale, yes, but to such a degree that it was almost grey, translucent enough that a network of veins could be seen just beneath the patching of blood staining his arms, blue spider-webs visible on his legs, his temple. His lips were chapped, and his breathing, barely there, a faint rasp.

 

More than attacked, he was obviously unwell. Critically, dangerously unwell.

 

Arthur needed a physician. If not Gaius, then any physician. Someone who knew something more about treating wounds than Arthur did himself. But he didn’t have a physician, nor even a local wise woman who could offer guidance. Even the voice in his head, the deep, seemingly omnipotent voice, had disappeared vanished without even a word of suggestion.

 

Arthur only had his own wits, and his wits were telling him to seek aid. Now.

 

He couldn’t bring himself to leave Merlin, though. The urgency that had driven him to the room, the voice that had demanded he make all haste to _right here_ had died. Faded without a trace. Something in the back of his mind niggled at that realisation, focusing on its potential importance, but Arthur barely noticed. Worry bordering on panic flooded through him for Merlin.

 

It had always been like that with Merlin. He didn’t know why, but always, any possibility of Merlin’s endangerment filled Arthur with a tidal wave of terror. Made it nearly impossible to string thoughts together, to think, to _know what to do!_

 

But –

 

Out. Aid. He needed help. And without thought Arthur knew he couldn’t leave Merlin behind. He looked on the verge of slipping into oblivion; there was _no way_ he would leave him for even a moment.

 

Carefully, but with as much speed as he could manage, Arthur wrapped Merlin in the robe. It was difficult, not because Merlin was resistant but because he was the opposite. He was a limp ragdoll, unresponsive and sagging heavily, nearly slumping to the ground once more as Arthur attempted to wrap him. He was aware that he was wasting valuable time in his attempts at cautiousness, at handling Merlin gently and wrapping him in garments, but it was cold outside and if he was to seek a physician Arthur didn’t know how far he would have to travel.

 

As far as he had to, he was sure.

 

It took little effort to scoop Merlin into his arms and rise to his feet, easier than it should be with his friend’s emaciation. Weariness from his race through the city had begun to settle upon his muscles, but Arthur barely noticed. A different source of adrenaline, of need, invigorated him now.

 

He’d almost forgotten that the world outside of the bathing room was enveloped in darkness. He was night-blinded after the vibrancy of the beaming yellow light and had to pause just outside the door to prevent himself from stumbling. And pause again to spare a glance for the window he had entered through that now served only to seep chilled air into the room. He considered leaving the way he’d come but… manoeuvring both himself and Merlin through the window while attempting to ensure his charge was provided the least jostling possible would be difficult. Surely there was a better way in, a door more easily accessible.

 

Sliding around the wall with rapid steps, he found it easily enough, stumbling over something that felt like a chair only once in his blindness. The darkness illuminated the room in fractured planes that wasn’t altogether helpful, but it did assist in finding the exit. It was a relief that, when he managed to tug at the handle, it was also unlocked and he was able to slip through into a less vibrantly-lit hallway. One of the roof-torches flickered overhead like a candle caught in the breeze, but provided enough visibility to make out the features around him.

 

Four other doors lined the walls, each plain and dark with a letter and numeral in worked bronze stationed centrally. Except for the one at the very end, that was, which lacked a numeral entirely. Rooms? Other rooms with other people? Other people that could help?

 

Without another thought, Arthur strode towards the nearest door. He didn’t bother attempting to shift Merlin in his arms to knock with his knuckles – opening the previous door had been awkward enough – but instead kicked almost savagely with loud thuds. Loud and persistent and constant _thump thump thump thump –_

 

The door swung open in under a minute, revealing a scowling middle-aged woman dressed in robes similar to that which cocooned Merlin. Her mousy brown hair sprung loose from her bun and gave her a faintly crazed and slightly intimidating impression to accompany the curl of her lip, lowered eyebrows and folding arms.

 

The scowl fell immediately when she perceived them, switched to suspicion, then confusion, and finally horror.

 

“My God, what happened? Jack? Jack, are you alright?”

 

Her voice did the same strange delay as had the jesters from earlier that evening, as though the words took a moment to cross the space between them and be heard. Arthur barely noticed, however, his eyes trained with rising desperation upon the woman. He didn’t know what to do, where he was, what _anything_ was, and he sorely needed help.

 

She started forwards a step, repeating the name and peering at Merlin. As Arthur took a step away he came to the rapid, baffled conclusion that her Jack was in fact _Merlin_. He shook aside the question, his eyes dropping to Merlin’s pale face, closed eyes and imperceptible breathing.

 

“Help,” Arthur croaked, his voice catching. “I need your help. A physician, or a wise woman…”

 

The woman was shaking her head sharply, her eyes wide and a hand rising to cover her mouth. For a moment Arthur thought she might be denying assistance, but as she spun on her heel and charged back indoors with the parting words “no, no you need an ambulance. Stay right there, I’ll call them!”

 

Which was a little bit of a redundant statement. Arthur would hardly _go_ anywhere. He didn’t even know where _to_ go. He could only hope that the woman was going to somehow help.

 

Time became a little disjointed after that. Arthur wasn’t sure how long it took for the physician to show up; he could have counted the seconds, but his mind was dull, his head aching. Tiredness, he registered detachedly. His thoughts were becoming foggy, fizzling in and out of focus, and all he could think about was _Merlin, please be alright, hurry, where is the physician, help, I need help, for Merlin…_

 

Help came both far too slowly. It felt to Arthur, as he stood immobile in the doorway of the woman’s rooms, half-aware of her constant nattering and rushing about doing God knows what, as though Merlin grew more sickly the longer he held him. His skin, impossibly, seemed to become paler still, the barely perceivable motions of his chest, swelling and sinking in breaths, slowing dangerously. The makeshift bandages around his arms dyed a solid red. The rage, the pain that flooded Arthur in his ignorance of _what the hell happened?_ was nearly overwhelmed by terror that managed to seep even through his weariness.

 

_Don’t die, please don’t die, please, please don’t die –_

 

The thought passed through Arthur’s mind that perhaps this was what it had felt like for Merlin when he’d cradled Arthur in his own arms and watched him fall into death’s embrace. He shuddered at the thought.

  
It was sudden, their arrival. Arthur heard first, through the fogginess in his head, a strange whining sound outside, rising and falling, echoing through the street, but he barely noticed. He was only drawn from his wide-eyed staring at Merlin – his breath was catching almost painfully by that stage, and the middle-aged woman’s words had faded to a distant buzz – when they appeared, bursting through a un-numbered door at the end of the narrow hallway in a flurry of procedural and efficient noise.

 

The pair were as oddly dressed as the rest of the people Arthur had come across that night, garbed in puffy green breeches, identically matching long-sleeves shirts, a wide belt holding a number of pouches and sturdy black boots. One inexplicably carried an odd, bulky, rectangular structure under one arm with ease despite its apparent heftiness. He only had a moment to take in the details, however, before they were upon him.

 

“This is Jack Emerson?”

 

The words were clipped, direct and no-nonsense. Arthur blinked in surprise as he realised the speaker was a woman; he hadn’t recognised her as a ‘she’ from her garb and the shortness of her hair. It was unnerving in a way that distracted him from replying to the confusing question.

 

Thankfully the mousy-haired woman who had helped him appeared at Arthur’s side once more and replied in his stead. “Yes, yes that’s Jack. I’m the one who called. He looks – I don’t know, will he be alright?” The woman was alternating between wringing her hands and tugging at the sleeves of her robe in distress.

 

“We’ll do everything we can,” the woman in all-green nodded shortly. She shifted her attention back to Arthur, to Merlin. Her eyes scanned him quickly, and Arthur felt an immediate sense of relief flood through him, despite the fact that he didn’t even know her. She obviously knew what she was doing. “He needs to be taken to the hospital right away. Marcus?”

 

The man – that one was definitely a man – stepped forwards and swung the rectangular object onto the floor before him. It was bulky, with metal rods criss-crossing on one side, and after a moment of fiddling, ‘Marcus’ somehow unfolded it into a table-like structure with wheels at the feet. The two gestured swiftly towards Arthur in a motion that was punctuated by the woman’s verbal direction.

 

“If you would, please.”

 

Arthur stared at them blankly, uncomprehending for a moment. What? What, they… put Merlin on the table?

 

No. No, Arthur couldn’t. He couldn’t let Merlin go, not now, not when he was so sick, so close to… He was shaking his head before he realised it.

 

The woman frowned slightly. “Please, sir, if we’re going to get him to the help he needs we have to –“

 

“I’m not leaving him.”

 

“You don’t have to,” the woman assured him. “Please, just put him on the gurney –“

 

“No, no, I can’t let him go.” Gurney? No, it didn’t matter. Panic was settling in once more. Arthur knew, logically, that a physician would need to study Merlin, to assess his injuries and illnesses to best heal him. But he… he couldn’t. He couldn’t just let him go, place him freely into the care of people he didn’t know. They could be anyone. How did he know their capabilities.

 

The two in all-green exchanged a quick glance. A brief pause and Marcus nodded silently towards his companion. Her lips thinned, but the gaze she turned back towards Arthur was not unkind. “Alright, if you want to carry him, by all means. But quickly, please, we need to get to the hospital.”

  
That word again. ‘Hospital’. Arthur didn’t know what it meant, could only hope it held enough physicians to care for Merlin. He nodded, accepting the woman’s leniency as his due – who was she to question his right to protect Merlin? – before he was hustled towards the door at the end of the corridor through which they had burst. Marcus followed behind, refolding the wheeled table and slinging it under his arm once more.

 

Down stairs, echoing with their footsteps. Through another door and into the cold night illuminated by the metal-post-torches. It was all fast, efficient, unquestioning and nearly running. Arthur was grateful for that; they _needed_ to be fast. He wasn’t even sure if he could feel Merlin’s breathing anymore, and the thought sent a jolt of terror through him once more. _Please, please don’t be dead, please…_

 

The woman ushered him towards the back of a carriage, one of the strange metal vehicles with the large, thick wheels and glass windows – because _every_ bloody window was made of glass in this city – and wasn’t even hitched to horses. The doors were at the back of the carriage, and without a word, only another gesture, the woman piled Arthur, Merlin and herself inside the cramped interior, slamming the doors behind them. Marcus disappeared for a moment before reappearing at the front of the carriage, pulling himself into a right-hand side door and settling himself amidst a sea of contraptions and before a small, bulky wheel. He settled a hand upon it, fumbled the other with a jingling of noises for a moment, and an instant later the carriage rocked and hummed as though it was a creature coming to life.

 

A jolting motion nearly cast Arthur’s from his feet, jostling him and his cradled Merlin into the wall of the carriage as it made a very obvious lurch into motion. That whine, the shrill wail that Arthur had heard distractedly in the building before, restarted, startlingly close and piercingly loud. Arthur didn’t know how they moved – there _hadn’t_ been any _horses_ – but was distracted from considering a moment later by the woman calling upon his attention.

 

She touched his arm briefly, resting her other hand on Merlin with almost tender gentleness. “You’ll have to put him down, sir, so I can have a look at him.” She tilted her head towards what appeared to be a pallet, though far too thin and short to be comfortable to sleep on.

 

Arthur shook his head firmly. “No, I –“

 

“Please, sir, if he’s going to receive the help he needs I need to assess him. I _need_ you to put him down.”

 

Her voice was firm, directive in a way that suggested she was more than used to speaking as such to anybody and everybody. Arthur doubted suddenly, in that moment, that even his status as a king would sway her from her insistence.

 

His fingers tightened briefly around Merlin’s limp form. His arms were beginning to ache from the weight. A new ache, not the earlier bone tiredness, but even so he didn’t want… he couldn’t…

 

Marcus, not quite turning to glance over his shoulder with his hands locked on the black wheel before his chest, spoke up for the first time in a deep, commanding voice. “Look, you can still see him. You can watch him to make sure he’s okay. We just need to take a look at him. He could be getting worse by the second and we need to determine his status.”

 

The man’s words were quiet yet no less authoritative, and coupled with the urging of the woman Arthur felt himself cave. They were – _had_ to be ­– physicians of some sort. And if they could heal Merlin then he had to give him into their care.

 

Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered Merlin onto the pallet. At another urging from the woman, he took half a step back – it was truly very cramped in the carriage – and nearly tumbled into a low, narrow seat lining one wall. Like a vulture descending, the woman fell upon Merlin with systematic haste.

 

Arthur watched, though he couldn’t really comprehend. She moved in a practiced flurry of movement that seemed not at all effected by the jolting and swaying of the carriage they were in, handling instruments of sorts that she pressed upon Merlins body, leaving some and removing others. Her fingers ran, assessing, over Merlin’s body, flipping open the robes for better access as she peered closely, and she murmured words beneath her breath as though speaking to herself. Arthur caught some that he understood – ‘blood loss’, ‘malnourished’ and ‘critical state’ – and some that weren’t quite so understandable, like ‘heart rate’ and ‘blood pressure’ and ‘hypothermia’. His gaze fastened piercingly upon her motions as she shifted her attention to Merlin’s wounds, determined to bat her out of the way should she act with obvious detriment to Merlin’s welfare. Yet she made no move to do as much; she didn’t even unwrap the not-quite-bandages on Merlin’s forearms to take a look but proceeded to add to them with tight wrappings of more folds.

 

He was only detachedly aware of his own surroundings. The inner walls of the carriage was sparely lined in cupboards and cabinets, draws and narrow side tables, many glass fronted – of course – and exhibiting instruments in yellows and blacks and whites and reds that he couldn’t even begin to comprehend the function of. There were odd cables of bright colours that didn’t appear to be made from rope and boxes with notations printed legibly across their white surfaces in words readable but too unfamiliar to be comprehended. There were both flashing and constant lights, many coming from Marcus’ end of the carriage, in an assortment of colours, and the jolting and swaying beneath him was setting Arthur’s stomach to churning. He couldn’t see where they were going, not really, even with the glass-windowed front of the carriage. Not that he could really bring himself to care.

 

All of it was at least as overwhelming as the strange city had been to Arthur and it was perhaps only the increasing fogginess of his mind that prevented Arthur from thrusting the woman aside, snatching Merlin up once more and launching himself from the carriage. But he didn’t. Because he couldn’t. Because he didn’t know how to help Merlin in this unfamiliar city and didn’t know anyone he could seek for assistance. No one other than the physicians already on hand.

 

All he could do was watch and wait, fearing but hoping that somehow Merlin would be made well again. It was an all-consuming thought; Arthur had been trained to never overlook the greater situation for the smaller facts, the less integral features. However, blame it on his weariness or the possibility of losing his friend, the only friend he had at that moment, but Arthur couldn’t even consider anything to be of greater import than Merlin’s survival. Not right now.

 

The trip to wherever they were going – to Hospital – didn’t take long. The whining overhead that had settled an almost painful, recurring ringing in Arthur’s ears cut off abruptly, only moments before the carriage jerked to a halt. The doors to the rear swung open and there was another flurry of activity so fast that Arthur at first didn’t register what was going on. Weariness had set its claws in for the brief minutes he’d sat down, and it took an incredible effort to work himself into motion once more.

 

And when he did, his heart nearly clawed its way from his mouth.

 

They were taking Merlin away. They were _taking him away_. More figures, unfamiliar figures in blue and more than he could count for their intertwining movements, had tugged the pallet from the carriage and were nearly running in their haste to draw it away. The sounds of their clipped words, professional as with the all-green woman’s, were overriding one another and being exchanged so swiftly that Arthur couldn’t make out any of it. It didn’t even sound like a comprehensible language. But more importantly, they were dragging the pallet, dragging Merlin, away and into the night that was brightly lit by radiant yellow, source-less light. Arthur was being left behind.

 

He did panic, then. An angry panic, and with demands pouring from his mouth he sought to launch himself after his friend. Tumbling from the back of the carriage and only just maintaining his feet, he spun around on the spot in an attempt to gauge his surroundings, to find the blue-clad people that had taken Merlin away.

 

His surrounds were different, unfamiliar. Before him was an impressively large, brightly lit building with glass doors half-opened and leading into an even more brightly lit, glowing white interior. He registered the structure only brokenly as the focus of his attention trained upon only one thing. On thing that he _couldn’t find_.

 

“Merlin!”

 

He knew it was useless to call as Merlin was not even awake, but his desperation was paramount. Spinning on the spot once more, Arthur raised a hand to his head to tear viciously at his hair. Frustrating; it was so frustrating! And terrifying! How _dare_ they take him away! And after what the physician woman had said, had assured him that he’d be kept safe, that Arthur could stay by his side. How could Arthur ensure Merlin’s safety if he didn’t even know where he was? His eyes scanned the open grounds around him, passing over unfamiliar people and carriages identical to the one he’d ridden in himself. But he couldn’t _see_ him, couldn’t see anything that resembled the unconscious Merlin lying limply on the pallet.

 

A hand clapped on Arthur’s shoulder, spinning him once more and bringing a startled snarl on his face. It was the woman, the physician in all-green from his carriage. Her plain face was flat and professional but with something approaching compassion softening the hardness. It vanquished the words that arose on Arthur’s tongue.

 

“It’s alright, he’s being seen to,” she informed him, her voice soothing and calm in a way that it hadn’t been prior to that moment.

 

“Where is he? Where have they taken him?” Arthur couldn’t help but growl, his tone accusatory.

 

The woman raised her hands before her, placating. “He’s just inside. They’ve taken him to ER; he’s in a serious condition and he needs medical attention immediately.”

 

“Where… you can’t… let me…” The thickness in Arthur’s head was muddling his words, tangling his tongue infuriatingly. He growled again, tugged at his hair once more, and spun back towards the illuminated glass doors at the front of the building.

 

The woman tapped him briefly on the shoulder once more, firmly enough to draw his attention. When he glanced towards her, she gestured towards another pair of doors a little further along the building, similarly illuminated but without the occasional figures passing through them. “If you just head on through there, go straight up to the front desk and tell the receptionist who you’re here for. They’ll send you to the waiting room and inform you when you can see your friend.”

 

Arthur stared at her for a moment blankly. He didn’t understand some of the words she’d said, and it had nothing to do with the strange delay of her words to his hearing or his weariness. He grasped onto the only part of the explanation that made sense. “They’ll let me see him?” Let? They’ll _let_ Arthur see Merlin? As if they could stop him!

 

The woman nodded, offering a small smile. “As soon as he’s in a stable condition. They’ll do everything they can to try to pull him through.”

 

Arthur didn’t really understand what she meant by that. It didn’t quite make sense. But he accepted it nonetheless and, with another nod from the woman, he started off at a trot towards the direction she’d indicated.

 

Wait? No, he wouldn’t wait, not if he had a say in it. Arthur didn’t know where Merlin was, but he would tear the building down if he had to. Anything to find his friend.


	4. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter contains references to suicidal behaviours. Also, as an aside (I'm not sure if it's necessary to include but I'll do so anyway), subjective opinions on such matters are stated from one character. Please note that these opinions are not necessarily my own, nor universally deemed as correct, but the opinions of the character only.

Arthur waited. He waited in a room of white.

The waiting room, like the rest of the halls Arthur had glimpsed briefly, was white walled, glaring white lights, and off-white polished floors made of some material that wasn't marble but looked a lot like it. A white desk with a grey counter stood at one end of the room, opposite double doors leading further into the building. A young man flicking through papers was planted on a low seat nearly hidden behind it.

There were thirty-six uncomfortable grey chairs arranged militaristically across the room. Sixteen sat back-to-back, running down the centre while the rest lined the walls like an audience ringing a performance. Most of the seats were unoccupied except for that held by Arthur and the other two individuals in the room. Well, three individuals if one counted the baby cradled by the young woman. Which Arthur most certainly did; it was a little hard to ignore the child that had been screaming its lungs out since it entered the room.

  
The woman, most likely the baby's mother, had long since forsaken her attempts to quieten her offspring and instead slumped in her seat with an expression of exhaustion tightening her eyes and ageing her wan face by years. She didn't speak, and it seemed that only the bawling of her baby kept her awake. The bowed, grey-haired old man seated on the opposite side of the room was similarly silent.

  
Other people had come and gone from the room, more people than Arthur had bothered to keep track of after the first twenty or so. A lot of younger people, many whom appeared drunk or pale and squinting in the aftermath of drunkenness. Some boasted injuries while others, like Arthur, were evidently waiting for someone else. Every so often, a blue-clad stranger would step into the room, call out a name, and disappear again with a waiter in tow.

  
They never called Arthur's name.

  
It had vexed him initially. Why wasn’t someone attending him immediately? Where was Merlin and why wasn't someone bringing Arthur to his side? Did they not know who he was?

  
But gradually, reality set in. No; it seemed no one did know who he was. And though they might be caring for Merlin, healing him within the painfully-bright ambiance of the inner hallways of the building - the 'hospital' Arthur had come to acknowledge it as being called - no one felt the particular need to inform him of the progression of the situation.

  
He'd tried demanding, tried intimidation and even attempted pleading of the woman behind the desk who, after an insurmountable time, had taken her leave and exchanged her seat with the young man. It was all to no avail. The same answer was always provided.

  
"We will inform you when there has been development on the situation. If you'll take a seat, sir."

  
Eventually, Arthur had complied. Eventually, his weariness overcame him and he couldn't force himself to even rise from his seat anymore, didn't even bother pacing the room and unconsciously counting his footsteps in an attempt to alleviate his worries. Twenty-six steps by seventeen. He'd counted once and it hadn't changed with each renewed count.

  
And Arthur had waited. Waited on the verge of exhausted sleep but unable to fully commit himself due to the buzz of thoughts assaulting his mind. His belly was muttering hungrily, his throat twitching with the irritation of thirst, but each irritant took a back seat in his mind, shunted down the line of what he unconsciously deemed as 'important'. The greater proportion of his thoughts was focused upon worrying for Merlin's welfare - where was he? Was he being healed? Was he alright? - and he struggled to draw himself from wearily tracking the unanswerable questions.

 

When he did, however, it was to be confronted by questions nearly as confronting as those that were dragging themselves listlessly around his mind. For alongside the pervasive thoughts, Arthur's was inflicted for the first time since awakening with the reality of just about everything else he'd been exposed to.

  
Until that moment, he hadn't the space of mind to consider anything of his own situation; there had been his awakening, then the confrontation with the jesters, then the voice had invaded his mind and he hadn't space for anything else. The urgency, the overpowering desire to pursue that which he didn’t even understand, couldn’t fathom, had managed to erase the confusion and rising terror that impressed itself upon him as he'd charged through the city. The people, the buildings, all that light and the booming sounds, the strange, horseless carriages that were pulled by he could only guess at what and the oddly beautiful but startling flowers blossoming briefly in the sky before vanishing. Even the smells had been different to what he was familiar with; in Camelot, there was always the smell of Human, a mixture of sweat and the faint aroma of waste in the lower regions of the city, interspersed with the solid, earthy undertones of Dirt.

  
There had been none of that. The city he'd found himself in had smelt different. Cleaner, somehow, yet with an unfamiliar reek of something decidedly unclean. He'd never smelt anything like that before and it was disconcerting.

  
More disconcerting than that, however, had been the smell of Hospital. The white halls and intensely illuminated rooms smelt clean in an entirely different way. There was a slightly alternate smell pervading everything, a smell that Arthur recalled as being faintly reminiscent of... magic.

  
Were they using magic? Was that what Hospital was, a place for sorcerers to practice their arts? Arthur wasn't sure, wasn't even sure how he felt about that but... Merlin had seemed terribly unwell, ailing beyond the deep gashes on his forearms. Perhaps, just maybe, a little bit of magic wouldn't go astray.

  
Arthur remembered what Merlin had told him, remembered the revelation that had shaken him to the core. That his beloved friend, the clumsy and incompetent yet remarkably brave and courageous manservant he had known for so many years, was a warlock... it was inconceivable. Or would have been inconceivable, had Arthur not witnessed Merlin's magic for himself.

  
It had seemed so horribly unexpected, so earth shattering and horrifying at the time. And yet over his last days, his last hours, Arthur had come to terms with it of a sorts. That perhaps magic, when wielded by Merlin, may not be so appalling after all. He had saved Arthur's forces, hadn't he? He had been the lynchpin in the battle that had ensured their victory over Morgana's troops. Merlin had launched a power that Arthur had previously considered impossible. _His_ Merlin had rained down lightning and destruction and... and it had been horrendous, but it had also saved the lives of so many. The lives of Arthur’s men.

  
Unexpected. That's what it was, to put it in the mildest of terms. Unexpected, like so many things Arthur had confronted in the last two days since the battle. Or at least, to Arthur it felt like two days. For all he knew it could have been weeks since the battle had been won. What of the war? What of the remaining forces Morgana had amassed, those that had escaped?

  
As Arthur sat and waited, his mind turned towards Camelot. Towards his city, his people, his knights. Guinevere. What had become of them? Were they all safe? Had they all survived? He didn't even know if those of his remaining Round Table – his closest Knights Leon, Gwaine, Percival - lived after the climatic attack on the fields of Camlann. It hurt, hurt deeply, that he didn't know.

  
And yet that hurt was distant. Detached, as though it was somehow irrelevant. It wasn't, Arthur knew - how could it be? They were his friends. Camelot was his kingdom - but in the face of all he had seen, of the city he had awoken in... Camelot seemed somehow decidedly other. The surreal nature of the city that surrounded Hospital seemed to eradicate the very shadow of his home city.

  
The only thing that remained, the only thing that was present, that continued to exist as an icon of everything he knew, was Merlin. And Arthur clung to the thought of him desperately, ached to be by his friend’s side for more selfish reasons than simply assuring himself of Merlin's welfare.

  
His thoughts trekked in weary tracks, stuttering and stumbling uselessly as he waited. No, Arthur couldn't sleep, but neither could he really think. His mind was not functioning effectively enough for him to even consider where he was, who the people that inhabited the city were, how far he was from his beloved Camelot.

  
Or what that voice had been. Urgent, demanding, overpowering; it had consumed him with the desperate desire to be there, a 'there' that Arthur hadn't even known. A 'there' that held Merlin, bathing in his own blood and knocking hesitantly at the door into the afterlife. Arthur didn't know if Merlin had been what he was urged towards, the destination he had been driven to. But regardless of their intent, Arthur would be eternally grateful to whomever the voices that had both awoken him and urged him through streets to the unfamiliar building had belonged to. If Merlin could be saved, that was.

  
There was something about seeing Merlin injured, seeing him helpless and needing Arthur's aid, that drove Arthur into a frenzy. Merlin was his friend, his closest friend, his best friend, and at times if felt like they shared a connection that was deep and solid and enduring in a way that Arthur didn't even feel with Guinevere. Strange, but Arthur had long since realised the fact. And whether it was magical or not - Merlin was, after all, a sorcerer - Arthur couldn't find that he really cared. Because it was Merlin.

  
Arthur didn't know for how long he sat in the uncomfortable grey seat, awaiting one of the physicians - or anybody really - to approach him and inform him of where Merlin was, of if he was recovering. No, not if. _How_. Because surely, _surely,_ Merlin could be saved. Finally, even the woman with the babe left, replaced briefly by a man with dark hair and a nervous twitch that seemed to forbid him from sitting idle. Arthur tracked his progress as he paced the room as he himself had until only recently.

  
After a time a blue-clad woman approached as though she knew him. She looking faintly frazzled with her hair fraying loose from its tail and tugged compulsively at the hem of her wrinkled blue shirt. She'd stepped up to the desk and spoken briefly, quietly, to the young man before turning to scan the room. Arthur had barely spared her half a glance she crossed clicked on white shoes across the not-marble floor. It was only when she’d stopped directly beside him that glanced up at her from blurry eyes.

  
"Excuse me, are you a friend or family of Jack Emerson?"

  
Arthur blinked owlishly for a moment, confused at the words even if the slight delay from sound to comprehension was now almost familiar. What? Jack... no he wasn't -

  
Then memory of the name resurfaced. He nodded hastily, lurching to his feet and wavering slightly before righting himself. "Yes, yes I am. Merlin is my... I'm his friend."

  
The woman nodded in return, offering a small smile. "I'm Doctor Jonas," she introduced herself, holding out a hand.

  
Arthur took it after a moment of consideration and they shook in greeting. "Arthur."

  
She nodded again. "Nice to meet you, Arthur. I'm sorry it's taken so long for someone to come out and see you. New Years Eve is always a little crazy, and it seems a even crazier this year than usual."

  
She shook her head, sighing heavily, and it was that more than anything that quelled Arthur's immediate response to growl angrily and agree that yes, she should be sorry, and could she please take him to Merlin now? He bit back the retort, however, and pursed his lips. "That's... alright. I'm sure you've been busy."

  
She gave another sigh, rubbing one of her eyes wearily and tugging once more at the hem of her sleeves before she made a visible effort to straighten her shoulders and adopt a professional persona. "Right, well, be that as it may, I'm here now and if you could I’d like to ask you to fill out some paperwork for Mr. Emerson. And perhaps, would it be possible to call the next of kin?"

  
Arthur raised his gaze from where he'd been frowning at a thin parcel of glaringly white pages that the woman held out to him. "Next of kin?"

  
"Has he got a parent, a sibling, even a cousin in town?"

  
Slowly, Arthur shook his head. He didn't even know where the city was - or town? Really? It seemed far too large to be a simple town - let alone who lived in it. However, he was fairly certain it was nowhere near Ealdor, and other than Hunith Merlin didn't have any relatives. "No, I don't think so."

  
The woman - Doctor Jonas, she'd called herself, which seemed a bit of an unconventional name to Arthur but he was too tired to contemplate it - accepted the words easily enough. "That's alright, you'll just have to fill it out for him. Maybe if you could give someone a ring, though? Let them know what's happened? It's always best to have family around for these kind of situations.

  
Arthur was confused at the suggestion - what did a ring have to do with anything? - but nodded acceptance because that appeared to be the response Doctor Jonas was waiting for. She gave him another smile, a word of thanks and handed over the papers and, bafflingly, a short, thin black rod before directing him to fill out everything he could and hand it to Receptionist at the desk. She left the room a moment later.

  
Settling himself into his seat once more, it took Arthur all of about five minutes to realise that the thin rod was a quill of sorts. A quill that worked more like a stick of charcoal in that the nib didn't appear to need refilling with ink but simply drew as directed in black streaks when impressed upon the page. Ingenious invention or magical tool Arthur wasn't sure, but either way it hardly mattered. He shook his head wonderingly and turned his attention to the papers. He didn't know what he needed to write, nor why, but if the physicians thought it might help Merlin somehow than he would do anything he could to assist.

  
He was left more baffled by the words than he had been by the charcoal-ink-quill. After a moment of blurring incomprehension, the shapes on the page skewing in a haziness that reminded him strangely of the delay he perceived before understanding words, the pages arrayed themselves with little black words. Words that left him nearly as confused as the blurriness.

  
NAME was answered easily enough, even if Arthur did have to pause a moment to consider the spelling of 'Jack Emerson' before printing it atop the line beside it. Next of kin was answered easily enough, though he could only supply a first name; Arthur didn’t know if Merlin even had a surname, and using ‘Emerson’ to seemed somehow wrong.

 

The rest was less comprehensible: D.O.B made no sense, and nor did M/F, and ADDRESS seemed to hold little relevance at all. What reason did they need a garment for, and how was that even applicable to Merlin? He had absolutely no idea what ‘Home Phone’ meant, and like those before it left the question unanswered.

  
There were other words that were more understandable, but only some, and Arthur hadn't the slightest idea of how to reply to them. ‘Medical History: Please check all that apply’ above a number of boxes and accompanying words that Arthur could read but made absolutely no sense. ‘Operations’ and ‘allergies’ with their similar boxes and words that made even less sense. ‘Please list any prescription medications, OTCs, vitamins, minerals of supplements you are taking’ was a riddle of jumbled letters that Arthur could only leave blank, and he didn’t even bother to attempt to fill out anything beneath the words ‘Insurance Details’. Question after question, some with little boxes that he read he was supposed to ‘tick’ if applicable and some requesting a more lengthy response. A response that Arthur couldn’t give.

  
There were more, questions on the following pages in that small, dark print of immaculate consistency and straightness. Most Arthur similarly had no clue of how to answer. Even the words ‘Circumstances leading to hospitalisation," left him stumped, though he made the connection of what the term ‘hospitalisation’ meant after frowning consideration. He didn't know, though. He couldn’t answer it. Merlin had been attacked, and apparently, ill as he'd been, was unable to fight back or even defend himself. Not even with magic.

  
The largely blank pages were vexing to behold, a frustration likely intensified by Arthur's weariness, shortening his fuse of tolerance, and he only scowled at the nod and word of thanks from Receptionist. He slunk back to his seat once more and, elbows leaning on his knees, stared broodingly at the floor beneath his feet. The only sound in the waiting room what the broken cries of the baby; God, surely its voice must be strained by now?

  
It was daytime when someone finally came for him again. The sun had risen almost overhead as seen through the high windows spaced across one wall of the waiting room. It had been for a while, in fact, but Arthur didn't know for how long. His belly, grumbling in disgruntlement, suggested 'far too long' and his drooping eyes 'far too late', but he ignored them both. People had trickled into the room and left again, the woman with her baby finally departing in the wake of another blue-clad physician. There were perhaps four other people in waiting when a weary voice announced "Arthur?" from the door.

  
It was a different physician this time, not Doctor Jonas. He introduced himself as Doctor Malcolm. Arthur realised belatedly as he shook the man’s hand that Doctor must be a title, perhaps the name given to the physicians. Malcolm was a short, stout man dressed in the blue uniform but with a pristine white coat over the top. A three-day grown of brown stubble hugged his square chin and reddened eyes bespoke sleepless nights, or at least long hours. He looked at least as tired as Jonas, if not more.

  
"If you'll follow me this way, Arthur, I'll bring you to Mr. Emerson now."  

  
That was all the incentive Arthur needed. He couldn’t leave the room fast enough, hastening to follow Malcolm through the double doors. The hallway beyond was exactly as it had been when he'd peered into it before, with the glaring white light from the roof-torches overhead that he still couldn't stop squinting from and what he could only guess were more physicians in blue and white coats. There were people out of uniform, too, some who looked to be ailing and wavering as they walked, while others assisted them or talked to physicians intently.

  
Arthur didn't particularly like following the physician like an attentive hound as they set off down the hallway, and felt on the verge of demanding answers. However, he didn't have a clue as to where he was going, and the thought that the physician would lead him back to the waiting room in reprimand for presuming behaviour held his tongue. Evidently, no one knew he was a king, nor even anyone of particular note given that only the bare minimum of formal respect had been afforded him. And though Malcolm seemed approachable enough, Arthur was all too familiar with the strength of character of Gaius to risk putting his foot in his mouth. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.

  
Malcolm was the one to break the silence, just after they turned into another hallway. Arthur was staring around himself blearily; the surroundings were the same odd foreignness as the rest of the city, of clean white walls, windowless passages illuminated with the radiance of the sun despite its absence. They passed more rooms than he could count and even more people hastening with knowledgeable efficiency, a directness that bespoke the persistence of worker bees. There were furnishing and equipment that he passed with a glance of weary curiosity that Arthur didn't recognise - and some even than he did, such as the table with wheels that he now perceived was actually a pallet and not, in fact, a table - but despite the confounding novelties he felt as though his quota for panic and high-strung nerves had been consumed over the endless hours he’d been awake. Arthur simply absorbed his surroundings, drinking in the details and storing them for later study.

  
"How well do you know Mr. Emerson, Arthur?"

  
Arthur turned his head from where he'd been peering into a darkened room in passing and frowned at the physician's questioning gaze. "Why?"

  
Malcolm shrugged. "I don't mean to pry, only that there were quite a few questions left blank on the intake form. I couldn't help but wonder..."

  
Gritting his teeth, Arthur had to force himself not to bark at the man. There was no accusation in Malcolm’s tone, a reasonable part of his exhausted mind registered, no matter how Arthur may perceive as much. "I've known him for years. He works for me."

  
The words were out of Arthur's mouth before he even realised they'd arisen. His frown deepened, but in self-reprimand this time. Merlin was his manservant, yes, but... why didn't that sound right? Because he was so much more than that?

  
Comprehension dawned on Malcolms face. "Ah, so you are his superior."

  
The uncomfortable feeling that had settled in Arthur's gut at his own words quelled any attempt at a verbal reply. He shrugged.

  
Malcolm seemed to take his neutral reply as affirmation. He nodded. "Well, given the circumstances and how personal the situation is, perhaps... if you've managed to get in contact with a family member -?"

  
"I'm his friend," Arthur ground out, ignoring the reference to family once more. Had they really expected him to manage to communicate with someone in a distant town already? It had not even been a day and it wasn’t as though he’d been offered anyone was anyone to send a message with. “He's one of the dearest people to me."

  
Malcolm faltered in his step, confusion settling on his face once more. He opened his mouth before closing it again, appearing to consider his words carefully. "How much do you know about his situation?"

  
"Other than that he nearly died this past night, very little," Arthur ground out through gritted teeth. The physician was not being particularly provocative and his words were not unkind or unsympathetic, but the weight of the previous hours was rapidly dragging at Arthur’s shoulders. "I was rather hoping you'd be able to tell me."

  
Malcolm's lips thinned and a frown settled on his forehead. They continued to walk in silence, rounding another corner before pausing in front of what appeared to a set of reflective metallic doors. Malcolm tapped a boxed numeral engraved in the wall beside the doors idly before stepping back and considering Arthur once more. "How did you come across Mr. Emerson, Arthur?"

  
Arthur raised an eyebrow at the physician. "What do you mean?"

  
"I mean how did you find him? In most cases such as these, the patient will ensure they are isolated before engaging in... such behaviours."

  
Such behaviours? Arthur didn't like the sound of that. His uneasiness was intensified by the cautiousness of Malcolms tone. "I found him in the bath," Arthur ventured shortly.

  
"You were visiting him?"

  
"Yes," Arthur confirmed, because it seemed like the answer Malcolm was looking for.

  
"And do you visit him often? Do you frequently meet at one another's houses at night?"

  
What exactly was the man getting at? The questions seemed irrelevant, confusing, and Arthur only found himself growing more irate. He huffed his frustration and folded his arms across his chest. "More than that, we share a room as often than not." Which was true; frequently, if not quite as much since he’d been wed to and often sharing a room with Guinevere, Merlin didn't even bother to retreat to his bed in Gaius' rooms.

  
For a moment Malcolm only stared at him blankly. Then, like curtains drawn back from a window, understanding dawned upon his face. "Ah, so you're...?"

  
"What? I'm what?" Arthur glared at him, eyes narrowed at more than the bright overhead lights now.

  
Malcolm waved a hand before him, his face becoming oddly apologetic. "No, I didn't mean to judge or anything, only... not to worry, I think I understand the situation a little better now."

  
Arthur was spared from having to reply to the bewildering statement by a ping from the metal doors before him. They slid open of their own accord, as though on a pulley system but in a motion far smoother, to reveal a small, box-like room of bare walls, low ceiling and that same off-white almost-marble flooring. Following Malcolm Arthur stepped inside, the doors sliding closed behind him disconcertingly.

 

They were silent for a moment, simply standing in the small room. Arthur frowned at the walls around him; were they waiting for someone? Someone who would lead him onwards? Take him to Merlin?

 

He was just on the verge of asking when Malcolm spoke once more. “I must apologise for my presumption,” he murmured, and as Arthur turned towards him he offered a half-smile and an expression of contrition. “I misunderstood your relationship.”

 

Which didn’t make sense in the slightest, but Arthur’s response was delayed as the doors slid open once more. Only, the hallway on the other side was different to the one they had entered the box-room from.

 

Arthur immediately felt his wariness struggle to shunt aside his tiredness. Magic. It was… it had to be magic.

 

It was only the fact that Malcolm left the phenomena completely uncommented upon, that he strode from the box-room with the confidence of one who knew where he was going, that Arthur didn’t smack him to the wall and demand just what this Hospital was that they flaunted magic so brashly. Except that… Malcolm had said he was leading Arthur to Merlin and, sorcerer or not, Arthur had not yet seen any evidence to suggest that any of the physician’s weren’t untrustworthy. None to suggest they were either, but he’d like to give them the benefit of the doubt. He was, after all, in their hands like clay at the mercy of a potter.

  
That didn’t mean that he didn’t keep an exceptionally close eye of his guide as they continued silently down the hallway.

 

It was a little different to the one they’d already passed through, but not by much. There were no pallet-tables lining the halls, pictures of landscapes and flowers – with _glass_ across the front of them; why? Why use so much glass? – decorated the walls periodically, and there was a distinct impression of quietness that permeated the scene. Fewer blue-clad physicians wandered the halls, replaced instead by figures in robes or thin, shapeless, high necked and sleeveless dresses that looked more like tunics than dresses for their shortness. Surprisingly, passing men as well as women were dressed as such.

 

They passed rooms, most of them with doors firmly closed. Those that were open revealed modest, tidy spaces boasting a high, narrow bed, flimsy-looking nightstands and a chair or two, sometimes with a table in between. Most of the beds were occupied, and Arthur didn’t need to be a physician himself to know that those drifting in and out of sleep or conversing quietly with occupants of the chairs were unwell. Pale faces, thin faces, drooping eyes over shadowed cheeks, lank hair. He had to wonder why, if the building was so riddled with magic, they weren’t simply healed. Perhaps they were cursed?

 

Though… there seemed an awful lot of people to have been cursed. Not for the first time, nor even the tenth, Arthur had to wonder just where in Albion the city was. Was it even in Albion? The thought was unnerving.

 

Malcolm stopped abruptly before a closed door and turned towards Arthur. The apologetic expression had dropped from his face and been replaced by cool professionalism. “Just through here,” he said, a little redundantly, and eased the door open, stepping into the room. In a rush of eagerness that nearly dispelled Arthur’s tiredness altogether, he hastened behind. He could have been walking into a trap – a _sorcerers_ trap – for all he knew, but in that moment it didn’t matter.

 

The room was dark, the overhead torches that the city seemed so fond of – but Arthur doubted he would ever find anything but disconcerting – blacked out and curtains nearly completely drawn across a large, square window on the opposite wall. Only a sliver of light crept through the folds, illuminating the room just enough to allow visibility. Arthur found he was quite thankful of the fact; he’d been gaining an increasingly demanding headache from exposure to the brutal lighting and the darkness was comforting.

 

There was a pair of chairs in the room, not hard and uncomfortable like those in the waiting room but made of soft, green-patterned material and cushioned. A simple table sat between them, empty, and three items of furniture faced a curtained off section that consumed most of the room. A curtain that Malcolm peeled open slowly.

 

Arthur nearly fell onto the bed revealed in his haste to step to Merlin’s side. Dropping heavily and painfully onto his knees beside the bed, he stared intently at his friend’s sleeping face. A rush of emotions, a mixture of relief, worry, distress and confusion flooded through him, tinged just faintly by the anger that had gripped Arthur as he considered the perpetrator of Merlin’s wounds. That anger was sluggish in rising this time, drowned by the other thoughts flooding his mind.

 

Merlin looked thin and frail in the narrow bed, lying deathly still and limp beneath blankets drawn to mid-chest. His skin was so pale it almost glowed in the darkness, and there were dark smudges beneath his closed eyes, shadows in his cheeks. He was breathing though – thank God – in slow, consistent breaths that caused the blankets to rise and fall ever so slightly.

 

Reaching forwards, Arthur placed a hand upon Merlin’s arm, the limb resting beside him atop the covers. It was wrapped in bandages so white and precisely tied that they looked almost to be a part of his skin. Blessedly, not a single spot of blood stained their purity. Arthur felt immeasurably relieved by that fact, though his relief was broken slightly by the sight of a cable of sorts stretching from the crook of Merlin’s elbow and attached to a metal stand. No, connected to a transparent bag of some transparent fluid. Arthur didn’t know what it was for, but it made him uneasy.

 

“He is stable,” Malcolm murmured, interrupting Arthur’s thoughts. He glanced towards the physician who in turn drew his gaze from Merlin to meet Arthur’s eyes. “He’ll still needs some time to recover in intensive care, but for the moment,” Malcolm nodded reassuringly, offering a small smile, “he is stable.”

 

Arthur turned his attention back towards Merlin. _What happened to you?_

 

“I was hoping you’d be able to enlighten us on the subject,” Malcolm said, and it was only then that Arthur realised he’d spoken aloud. “Is there any particular reason you are aware of that Mr. Emerson may have been experiencing suicidal thoughts? The form we asked you fill out suggested he hasn’t suffered from any clinically diagnosed mental disorders, but perhaps… if you know something…?”

 

Arthur raised his eyes towards the physician once more, uncomprehending. Suicidal. There was that word again, the word that didn’t feel _right_. He didn’t know what it meant, but it caused his gut to clench. His hand tightened slightly upon Merlin’s fingers.

 

An expression of sympathy, almost pity, settled on Malcolm’s face. “I’m sorry, I know this must be hard for you. But to best care for Mr. Emerson we need to know as much as we can. Suicidal behaviour is though to be more pervasive in younger people, typically teenagers, so most people overlook the fact that it occurs just as frequently in adults.” He sighed heavily, weariness replacing pity in his voice. “It always saddens me to see someone attempt to take their own life, regardless of the cause or their particular circumstances. Just to think that…”

 

The rest of Malcolm’s words became a buzz in Arthur’s ears as shock hit him like a charging horse. Take their own life? Take their… what… why would… _what?_

 

His eyes widening in horror, Arthur lifted his gaze towards Merlin’s face, towards the smooth, expressionless features gripped in unconsciousness more than sleep. What Malcolm said… Had Merlin… No, surely not. He couldn’t have, but… Had he tried to kill himself?

 

What?

 

 _Why?_ Why would Merlin _do_ that?

 

Arthur would never – _never_ – consider taking his own life. There were too many people he was responsible to, too many he would leave behind. And, in times of war as he been thrust into so often, the very thought of wasting anyone’s life was sacrilegious. Arthur had thought – no, he’d _known_ – that Merlin had felt the same. Life was precious; what could _possibly_ have encouraged Merlin to desire to take his own?

 

The first thought that spawned from Arthur’s stunned reception of the information was that Malcolm was lying. He was lying, surely, because Merlin – Arthur’s Merlin – wouldn’t do that. But then… No, because then… Malcolm, he had no reason to lie.

 

The second possibility, hastening on the heels of the first, was that Merlin had foolishly attempted to sacrifice himself for the greater good, for whatever reason, as though his death would somehow mean something. Because Merlin was brave, often stupidly so. Arthur knew this. And yet… why had Merlin not said anything? And how he went about it, inflicting such ugly wounds upon himself and allowing his lifeblood to drain away like a river rolling downhill was… it was horrifying. Why would he need to go about it that way, anyway? That wasn’t how ritualistic sacrifices worked, was it? Surely, for some reason…

  
The image of Merlin, lifeless in a pool of his own blood, slumped limply against the side of the tub, arose in Arthur’s mind. He shuddered, his gorge rising, and had to clamp his teeth into his lip to prevent himself from loosing what minimal remains churned in his stomach. Merlin had… had he really…? Would he really…?

 

“…thur? Arthur?”

 

Blinking back a sudden spell of dizziness, Arthur shifted his gaze towards Malcolm. Pity settled on the physician’s features once more, focused directly upon him this time. “I’m sorry. I know this must be hard for you. I have to ask, though, for Mr. Emerson’s sake; do you know of any particular reason he may have been experiencing suicidal thoughts? Any issues at home, at work, in… in your relationship?”

 

Arthur stared blankly up Malcolm, blinking slowly. He was aware his mouth was hanging open, struggling to form words in a most undignified fashion, but just as he couldn’t seem to clear the sudden blurriness from his eyes neither was he able to force a single sound from his mouth.

 

Issues? What sort of issues? At home? As far as Arthur knew, Hunith was still safe and well, and Ealdor was untouched by the war waged by Morgana. And outside of the war, before everything had fallen so rapidly into chaos, work had been no more demanding than normal. Arthur knew he’d been asking more and more of his manservant over the years, and at times took his frustration out on Merlin for want of a more appropriate target. Merlin hardly seemed to care, though; on the contrary, he was something of a perfect recipient for Arthur’s vexation. Far from cowering, Merlin usually gave back as good as he got.

 

And a relationship… As far as Arthur knew, Merlin had no lover. He was fairly certain he’d know if he did. But no, Malcolm said _‘your relationship’._ Between Arthur and Merlin? Issues? No, there weren’t, there couldn’t be. They were still the same as always, the closest of friends, bantering as much as conversing and… and…

 

Well, there had been the revelation of the magic. Arthur felt a pang of guilt at his immediate shunning of Merlin upon discovering him capable of magic. Merlin had appeared mortified by his aversion, and it was that as much as the knowledge that Merlin used magic _for_ Arthur, to _help_ him, that he’d forgiven him so quickly. Or, if not altogether forgiven him, at least accepted the reality for what it was.

 

Unbidden, the memory of what he’d thought were his last moments replayed in Arthur’s mind. Of Merlin’s face, eyes swimming with tears and desperately pleading with Arthur not to die. Yes, Arthur realised – completely realised – for the first time. He forgave Merlin for not telling him of his magic. His reasons were sound enough, truth be told. Such a discovery would have caused serious dissention in Camelot, discord that Arthur couldn’t afford at the present, not with Morgana and her own magic hanging over him.

 

And for Merlin having magic itself? Truly, there was nothing to forgive in that regard at all. Nothing. Not only had it been a burden thrust upon Merlin rather than chosen, but what choices he had made regarding the use of his magic were all for Arthur. He knew that now. He didn’t need the evidence of Merlin’s actions at the battle to influence his beliefs. Because realisation, understanding, memories of the past, slowly filtered into Arthur’s mind and he _knew_. So many times… And Arthur could only be grateful for each and every one of them.

 

Surely Merlin knew that. Surely he knew he’d been ‘forgiven’. He wouldn’t… he wouldn’t try to _kill_ himself because of their brief spat, would he?

 

Malcolm seemed to interpret Arthur’s silence as dissent. He made a noise of understanding and sympathy before his wearily slumping shoulders straightened and he set himself in the professional persona Arthur had witnessed before. “Well, we’ll just have to wait until Mr. Emerson awakens to discern the cause.” He paused for a moment, considered, and continued with more hesitancy. “Arthur, Mr. Emerson should not be left alone at present, not in the mental state he is. A nurse will –“

 

“I’ll stay here,” Arthur cut in, disregarding anything Malcolm sought to elaborate with.

 

“Yes, you are more than welcome to,” Malcolm nodded. “However, he needs constant attendance –“

 

“I’m not leaving. Not for a moment,” Arthur interrupted again. And he meant it. In the back of his mind, he knew that it was probably foolish. That he should make attempts to discover just where exactly he was, how Camelot faired in the aftermath of the battle, the safety of Guinevere and his knights. Even the basics of finding food, a change of clothes from the filth he was wearing. There was so much to do, so much to ascertain; he had a kingdom to command and his own health to see to.

 

But, in that moment, Arthur couldn’t even consider leaving Merlin’s side. His knees felt welded to the hard, polished floor, as deeply embedded as the roots of a tree. He simply _couldn’t_ leave, even with the assurance that Merlin would heal, that he would get better and that the physicians would care him for. Arthur didn’t know these people, couldn’t really trust them even after the efforts they’d gone to in saving Merlin’s life. And more than that, there was no way that Arthur would leave his friend alone to awaken after whatever he had been through without a familiar face. Whether it was driven by the desire to return the favour Merlin had afforded him by remaining by Arthur’s side until his last breath or something deeper, it didn’t matter. Arthur _would not_ leave.

 

Malcolm thinned his lips thoughtfully for a moment before slowly nodding. “You may stay, of course. I’m sure it would be a comfort to Mr. Emerson when he awakens. If you feel the need or desire to leave the room, however, please alert –“

 

“I’m _not leaving_ ,” Arthur persisted forcefully. His voice was almost a growl, aggressive, but he didn’t care. Malcolm didn’t appear particularly intimidated by it anyway.

 

“I believe you,” he assured Arthur, a slightly patronising tone to his words. “I only meant that should you have need to seek a meal, or a shower, or even your own bed for a night, I would ask you to alert the head nurse. Either by pressing the button here,” Malcolm gestured towards something evidently on the other side of Merlin’s pallet, “or at the nurse’s station down the hall. To the left and then a right and you’re right upon it.”

 

Arthur nodded slowly, processing the information that didn’t quite make sense. Nurse… he supposed a nurse was something of a servant of the Hospital. And a button? He shrugged it off as inconsequential; he wouldn’t be leaving, so such knowledge was unnecessary.

  
The suggestion of food, however, went straight to Arthur’s belly, by-passing his conscious thought processing. A loud grumble interrupted the lull in conversation.

 

Malcolm gave a small chuckle. “Perhaps you do need something to eat?”

 

“I’m fine,” Arthur muttered, faintly abashed, and turned his gaze towards Merlin once more. He hadn’t moved an inch since Arthur had entered the room.

 

“When was the last time you ate, Arthur?”

 

“Does it matter?” Arthur didn’t even look at Malcolm. He just wanted the man to leave now.

 

There was a contemplative pause. “It matters. You can’t deprive yourself in caring for Mr. Emerson. Perhaps you should go –“

 

“No,” Arthur replied shortly. If Malcolm suggested he leave one more time… It was making him suspicious. Did the man truly want him to leave Merlin’s side? Did he have some sort of sinister plans in mind? But no, that didn’t make sense. If he’d had dark intentions he would have certainly carried them out before bringing Arthur to the room.

 

Malcolm sighed, but he didn’t attempt to sway Arthur further. “Alright, I won’t force you. I understand that you don’t want to leave the side of someone you love, not even for a moment.” He offered Arthur another sympathetic smile as he raised his gaze towards the physician’s, surprised at the turn-a-phrase. Love? Well, when he considered it, yes, Arthur did love Merlin. Just that, well… he wouldn’t have claimed as much in so many words. “I’ll see if I can have something sent up for you for lunch,” Malcolm offered. “Seeing as our patient will likely be unable to partake, perhaps the kitchen can afford to spare some for you in his stead.”

 

Arthur nodded in acceptance, mutely grateful for the offer. Not that it wasn’t his due, of course, but then the people of the Hospital, and the city at large, didn’t seem to care for his superiority. “When will he wake?” He asked instead.

 

Malcolm sighed once more and shook his head. “It will depend, really. It could be as soon as the next few hours, or it could take days. He lost a lot of blood, is seriously malnourished, and his immune system was shutting down. We found several internal ailments too, none particularly dangerous on their own or in a healthy individual, but in his state they could have been seriously damaging.”

 

“He’s better, though, isn’t he?” A faint note of worry managed to creep into Arthur’s tone. Not he wasn’t in the mindset to care; he simply noticed.

 

“He will be, yes,” Malcolm assured him. “It will take time, and he’ll likely have to maintain his stay for several days at least, though not only because of his physical status.” He frowned concernedly. “He will need to have a lot of support, Arthur. We need to establish a response team, work out an action plan to ensure this never happens again.”

 

Arthur was nodding before Malcolm finished his words. He didn’t really understand the references in a medical situation, but the terms were familiar to him enough to translate their meaning to the context. “Of course. Whatever I can do.”

 

Malcolm actually smiled at him this time, still with sympathy but something else that Arthur couldn’t quite identify. It looked almost like relief. He didn’t comment further on the situation, however, except to say that he would drop by within a few hours for a check up and assured Arthur once more that he would try and have something sent up for him. A word of farewell and he left the room, closing the door behind him.

 

Arthur turned his attention back to Merlin, his shoulder sagging with the absence of the stranger. His mind was abuzz in a way he was familiar with, when on campaign or a quest and running on residual energy when the rest of his stores were depleted. Thoughts looped through his mind, unanswered questions and roiling emotions that he hardly cared to identify.

 

All the while, he maintained a firm hold of Merlin’s hand, clasping cool skin between his fingers. They trembled just slightly, nervous in a way Arthur hadn’t been for years. He didn’t even tremble before charging off to battle; at least in fighting Arthur knew what he was doing. But this… this was something Arthur had no idea of how to approach.

 

_What happened to you, Merlin?_


	5. Undead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter contains descriptions of depression, self-inflicted violence and morbidity. Please tread warily as such themes may be triggering.
> 
> If you have a moment, please lend a word of two! I absolutely love hearing from any and everyone; and thoughts, comments or suggestions are so appreciated. My most sincere thanks to everyone who has done so already.

It was the distinctive _snick_ of a closing door that brought him back, tugging at his consciousness like a persistent fisherman landing a flailing trout.

 

_No… No… No, no! No, no, no, no, no, no, no…._

 

Misery crashed upon him with the force of a steam engine. Misery and hopelessness and, overlaying the familiar emotions, the renewal of an age-old sense of failure.

 

There was no surprise, though. Not really. _I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save_ anyone _, none of them, not in the end. I always fail, so of course I’d fail at this too._

 

There was no question in his sluggish mind that failed he had. Merlin had never experienced death, but he was fairly certain that the afterlife, if it existed, whether as heaven or hell or something in between, did not carry the sharply clean and sterile smell of a hospital. The sterility that smelled so oddly similar to magic. Which meant that he’d been brought there somehow, and his attempts at ending his own redundant existence rendered incomplete.

 

It was enough to make him nauseous, and in the stillness of his slow awakening Merlin felt physically ill. His entire body rebelled, sinking into the profound misery in his mind.

 

He never wanted to move. Never again. There was nothing in the mayhem of the modern world – _nothing_ – that could possibly motivate him to fall back into the motions of everyday life that he had once trudged, just like every other _normal_ person. Because he wasn’t normal; he didn’t live and grow, age and die, like everyone else. Year after year, for so eternally long that he wasn’t even sure of the exact number of years anymore. Too long of thinking, of remembering, of regretting.

 

It hadn’t been so bad at first. There had been the pain, the feeling of inadequacy and intense guilt in the aftermath of Arthur’s death. He’d _failed_ , and they had been so close. The only thing that had given Merlin a modicum of hope was Kilgharrah’s final words: _Arthur is not just a King – he is the Once and Future King. Take heart, for when Albion's need is greatest, Arthur will rise again._

 

Arthur would return. He would, and it was that knowledge that pulled Merlin through the centuries of increasing melancholia. The memory of the late dragon’s words that kept him sane as he forgot things, the little things, from his past, his travels and the people he’d come to know and love, as he waited for an unknown future.

 

Merlin had forgotten his mother’s face. Just like that, one day he’d awoken, considered the long-lost past, and realised he couldn’t remember. It had been heartbreaking, had shattered something inside Merlin that had never really healed.

 

Realisation rapidly dawned on him that he was rapidly losing the distant memories of all of those he’d known in his younger years. He couldn’t remember the face of Gwaine either, or Gwen, or Gaius. Flickering shadows surfaced when he tried to draw on the memories, but even those shadows dimmed into a distant memory.

 

Even Arthur. He couldn’t remember. That realisation… somehow it hurt the most.

 

Because his memory was inadequate. Unfit for the task. Merlin would dream sometimes, would remember the past as hazy images, disjointed and faded, lost to the passing centuries. Some things remained strong; he had never forgotten what he’d termed his ‘First Life’, his life in Camelot, and remembered what he’d done like a recounted succession of events. But the details of the sights he’d seen, of the smells, the sounds; they all faded.

 

That realisation had hurt too. Hurt almost too much to bear.

 

The lives he’d lived since were the same. He’d travelled far and wide, anything to while away the time waiting for Arthur’s return. Because that was his destiny. It was what he lived for, what he continued to live for. To wait, and to prepare for the day that the Albion’s Once and Future King would return. The day he would be needed once more.

 

There were people he’d met, lives he’d lived and adored, but centuries of experience had taught Merlin that living, experiencing, and losing those he loved tore pieces from him bite by bite. Each time he’d left because he simply couldn’t stay with those he cared for any longer, couldn’t reveal the true nature of his existence, had ripped him apart. Yet even that was better than witnessing their deaths.

 

Merlin could remember them. Most of them, anyway; friends, lovers, adopted families, even colleagues. But those memories, like those from his First Life, were clouded, details gradually drifting into forgetfulness. He could no longer place the exact glorious shade of Edith’s vividly red hair, couldn’t hear the infectious bellowing of Seamus’ laughter, couldn’t see the beloved smiles of Ernst and Tanja’s little girls, gap-toothed and full of mischief as they welcomed him into their family like a long-lost brother. He couldn’t even picture the openness and sincerity in Marcello’s eyes, the understanding in his smile, as Merlin had told him – the first and one of only few – of his immortality.

 

So many faces, memories, places… things that had fallen to the darkness of time, though not entirely forgotten. It hurt. It hurt so deeply that at times the pain of loss had floored Merlin. He was alone, always alone, and waiting. Eternally waiting for the day Arthur would return.

 

It was his lifeline. Not even recording the details in written format, a hard copy documentation of each and every detail he could recall, settled him like the knowledge Kilgharrah had left with him.

 

But with each war that passed, each tide of battles and death, of raging violence and the absence of the King, Merlin felt himself grow a little smaller, his hope a little more desperate yet a little more disbelieving. And then, so recently it felt like barely yesterday, the Great Wars. The wars that encompassed the world, sprawling across all civilised continents.

 

Merlin had been sure, had been certain, that if there were any time that Arthur would return it would be for the World Wars. Chaos gripped not only the United Kingdoms but stretched its spidery fingers across Europe, Asia, America and Africa, even reaching as far as Australia. But there was no sign of Arthur, nor even one who resembled him. And Merlin was sure he would know Arthur, even had he been reborn with a different face as some religions believed occurred. Merlin would _know_.

 

There was no Arthur. There was no upheaval in the world that signalled his return. The magic that flowed through the earth, all but forgotten in the twentieth century, seemed unaffected and uncaring of the destruction wrought by and upon humanity. And the Lake of Avalon, the site that Merlin had long deemed sacred, a place of Arthur’s resting and, he was sure, the gateway of his return, gradually dwindled. It shrunk, the lake drying and landfill taking its place until only a body of water little larger than a pond remained.

 

Merlin had visited, and lived upon, the shores of the Lake more years than he could count over his long, long life. Probably many more than he could actually remember. He would always ensure that he returned at least once a decade, and often found himself staying for years, longing and yearning for someone who had died centuries past.

 

It had worn too thin. Since the Great Wars, Merlin had felt himself sinking into listlessness. He saw it happen, had witnessed it like an onlooking observer as he spent days staring blankly at the roof of his Glastonbury apartment, spent weeks barely eating and unable to sleep yet not really awake. Time was an illusion to him, and though his body protested at the mistreatment it never seemed to be drawn into non-existence. Not for Merlin; of course, Merlin was immortal. Such things just didn’t _happen_.

 

Fifty years. Nearly fifty years he had declined, with days morphing together without boundaries. Merlin isolated himself from the world, from it’s people, for what was the point of making friends, of coming to care for people, of experiencing the joys of companionship, when it was ripped from his grasp so quickly? Jack Emerson, the reclusive young man in room three-A of number eighteen Churchwood Street, the character Merlin had adopted as he had so many in the past, did not make friends. He did not surface from behind his closed door, not to talk to the warily friendly neighbours, not even to work. Merlin had enough wealth to sustain himself for years, if not lifetimes, from the centuries past. He didn’t _need_ to leave.

 

At some point, some indeterminable moment, Merlin reached a conclusion. His entire life, everything that he existed for, was redundant; he could not strive for anything, because his destiny was, and always would be, intertwined with Arthur’s. And without Arthur to root him to reality, to guide him like a lighthouse would a wayward ship through a darkened night, Merlin was adrift, lost and aimlessly wandering.

  
Strange, how someone he had known for such a short time relative to the entirety of his life, could still have so much significance.

 

So he decided: come the turn of the century, of the millennium, if there was no change, no sign of Arthur, no direction for his stumbling steps, Merlin would put a stop to it. He would push the boundaries of the magic that made him immortal and determine if self-induced death was a possibility. Merlin already knew his body was more resilient than that of the average person; he healed faster, rarely sickened, and could withstand depravation that would have left others collapsed and whimpering far behind. His body was fuelled by his magic as another’s was by blood, and only more deeply with each passing century. It was stronger and tt was not arrogance to profess as much; it was the truth. A truth that Merlin marvelled at as much as he detested it.

 

It could have been years or only days before the final weeks of nineteen ninety-nine that he made his decision. Something in Merlin honestly thought that Arthur would return before then. Or perhaps it was only a feeble hope, desperation driving him to believe in such impossibility. But as the days passed, as Merlin monitored time slogging by with a detached focus that he hadn’t for years, reality set in.

 

He wasn’t coming back.

 

Arthur wouldn’t return, not when there was no reason to, and certainly not in such a time of relative peace. The Great Wars had passed and even the Cold War ceased nearly a decade before. There would always be civil wars of course, and discord arising in steady rises and falls, but they were diminutive when compared to the World Wars. The feeble light of hope, of desperation, guttered out within Merlin, and as the city came alight, fireworks bursting into the sky and the residents flooding into the streets to cavort euphorically, Merlin accepted the finality of utter pointlessness.

 

He didn’t lock the door; someone would want to enter eventually, even if it was just the landlord seeking an overdue payment, and it would just make things easier for them if they didn’t have that extra hurdle to overcome. Merlin switched out the lights to the room and wandered slowly, blindly, into the bathroom. He drew a bath, the water lukewarm, and, ridding himself of his clothes, climbed into the tub.

 

For long moments he simply sat, mind numb, unable to even feel regret for Arthur’s continued absence, let alone fear for his own death. There was not even the race of adrenaline through his veins at the prospect of ending his life, the frantic, subconscious, innate desire to fight against mortality. Merlin took that as a sign that his body – and the magic that still coursed through him so thickly – was accepting his decision.

 

The knife’s sharp, reflective steel scattering bright rays of the overhead light into splaying shards. Merlin twirled it in his hands for a moment, staring at it blankly with that persistent numbness, before setting the sharp edge to his wrist and slicing downwards. The warmth of his own blood was the greatest warmth he’d felt in conscious memory.

 

 _And yet I failed. I failed at that, too._ Even in the depths of his misery, Merlin felt a slice of anger quiver just on the edges of his mind. Anger towards his magic, to magic at large, that it hadn’t allowed him this one peace, this one chance at freedom. He had begun to realise – at what point he wasn’t sure – that Kilgharrah may have been speaking in another riddle when he’d given Merlin his parting words. That Merlin had misinterpreted the meaning of ‘return’ and that no, Arthur was not coming back. And that Merlin was alone.

 

It wasn’t fair. Immortality… it wasn’t a blessing but a curse. A curse of loneliness and isolation, of loss and pain and grief, of living with every regret and failure as they piled higher and higher upon bowed shoulders, relentless and never-ending. And apparently Merlin couldn’t escape from it.

 

Though that wouldn’t stop him from trying.

 

It took an almost insurmountable effort for Merlin to push his eyelids open, both for their grogginess and his despair. The room that spread before him was small, neat and functional; a set of modest armchairs on either side of a small round table, thick drapes across a square window with the thinner curtains strung on the rail around Merlin’s bed swept aside. He couldn’t tell if it was day or night but the room was dark, the overhead lights switched off.

 

Turning his head, Merlin glanced to either side of his bed, to the nightstand and the drip of saline that was strung to a cannula in the crook of his elbow. It didn’t pump loudly or even appear to be doing anything but existing. And for some reason, the sight of it filled Merlin with anger. Irrational anger at the drip as well as the doctors who were saving his life.

 

_They don’t know anything. Why can’t they just let me die?_

 

It was a selfish thought, some part of his mind knew, but a thought nonetheless. Infuriating. With shaking fingers, Merlin reached for the cannula in his arm and tore it loose. It hurt, more than he’d expected, and a spurting dribble of blood erupted in its wake, but he didn’t care. He was getting out of the hospital.

 

Still, it wasn’t like he wanted to make a mess for the hospital staff, nor alert them to his bleeding state. Irrational as the thought too may be – and Merlin was falling prey to a fair share of them since awakening – he couldn’t leave his arm open and weeping ruddy droplets onto the crisp white bed sheets. His arms were wrapped in bandages, tight but not too tight, and unravelling one he glared accusingly at the half-healed cut revealed as the patch beneath fell loose.

 

There was no way to tell from the degree of reparation how long Merlin had been in the hospital; his rate of healing was sporadic at best and almost solely determined by the inclination of his magic. But the gash were healed enough for him not to need the bandages anymore. It was still reddened and tender, the stitching stark against the faint swelling of skin, but far from splitting open and bleeding. Turning his attention from it, he set to with used pad and rewrapped the bandages around the tear in his elbow.

 

Pushing up to sitting – it only took a little effort, as he was already half-elevated with the inclination of the bed – Merlin swung his legs to the side. Dizziness gripped him for a moment, and he was forced to pause, squeezing his eyes shut as the world spun around him. As it dissipated, his mind set into grim determination, formulating a strategy of attack.

 

It felt strange, to be motivated into action after so long of listlessness. It was morbidly ironic, really, that he should feel as such for hastening towards his own death. But is was necessary; Merlin may have segregated himself from society for the last few decades, but he knew enough to know that the hospital and its doctors wouldn’t let him simply walk through the front doors with a smiling promise of “yes, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again”. Merlin couldn’t stand the thought of a psychologist impressing themself upon him, of trying to ‘stabilise his mind’ so he wouldn’t attempt such actions again.

 

Because he would. Again and again, as many times as he could to get out of the endless loop of redundancy.

 

He wasn’t wearing clothes, Merlin noted as he glanced down at himself. Or, well, the hospital robe could hardly be deemed ‘clothes’; shapeless and thin, it barely preserved any degree of modesty. A quick glance around the room, however, showed little by way of alternative outfit.

 

Well, he’d have to find something, even if it was a pair of scrubs. Merlin doubted he’d manage to get halfway towards the exit clad as he was.

 

He was just readying himself to attempt to slide onto his feet – attempt being the operative word as he was by no means certain he’d be able to remain standing at that point – when the door opened. Head snapped upwards, Merlin froze, eyes fastening upon the figure passing through the door. The dimness of the room didn’t lend his vision any favours, but he could see sufficiently. Well enough that, when the man closed the door again behind himself, Merlin’s breath stuttered to a halt to the sound of a pathetically mewling whimper.

 

 _Oh God, I’m going insane. It’s finally happened; I’ve tipped over the edge into madness_.

 

Arthur paused at Merlin’s feeble sound, raising his own eyes towards him. He was exactly as Merlin didn’t remember him, if a little careworn. The details he’d forgotten snapped back into mind like the lyrics of a song long considered lost. His golden hair was tarnished to bronze in the poor lighting, his skin pale and eyes faintly drooping in tiredness, but the rest was the same. Broad, sturdy shoulders, trim lines of waist and legs, the straight, hard features of his face, even the paleness of his eyes. He appeared to be wearing a doctor’s white coat over archaic undergarments of thin shirt and breeches, a pair of boots that had seen better days. For a crazed moment Merlin wondered if he may even be his doctor, some sick twist of chance or predetermined happenstance that put Merlin into his care. But no, no one wore clothes like that these days. And certainly not in such a filthy state.

 

_I must be imagining. I am definitely going insane. God, I waited too late, I should have done something sooner, before my mind gave way to madness. That, or I’m so doped up on whatever the doctors have given me that I’m hallucinating. Yes, yes, that could very well be it._

 

The thoughts rattled around in the hollow confines of Merlin’s skull, but he couldn’t speak them aloud, couldn’t move an inch for the mind-numbing shock he had fallen into.

 

Arthur – of hallucination-Arthur – appeared similarly frozen, but unlike Merlin after a few moments thawed himself enough to respond. His expression, blanked with just a slight widening of eyes in what Merlin distantly – God, yet it was somehow so familiar – recalled as being his own surprise, quickly took hold of the situation. Which was, Merlin realised, similarly classical of Arthur.

 

His lips curled in a smirk that would have been mocking if Merlin didn’t see what appeared to be relief easing the tightness around his eyes, the lines on his forehead. “So, you’re finally awake, _Mer_ lin.”

 

The words were old, very old, and in a language that had fizzled into extinction. It was like a slap in the face to witness its rekindling. Even the enunciation of those words was so familiar it nearly broke Merlin’s heart, causing it to twinge painfully as Arthur continued. “What, are you surprised to see me? You look like a deer who’s awoken in the midst of a pack of wolves.”

 

Merlin couldn’t reply. His eyes felt like they were going to fall from his head, and there was a painful hotness prickling them sharply. But he couldn’t blink, couldn’t look away. He feared that, in looking away, Arthur would disappear, and in that moment he didn’t care if he was an apparition or not. Merlin hadn’t seen his friend – his king, for centuries – had forgotten even what he’d really looked like. But even with his failing memory he knew, knew with a bone-deep certainty, who the figure before him was.

 

Even if he wasn’t real.

 

Another choking sound emitted from his throat and, unbidden, Merlin’s hand rose to clamp over his mouth. It did nothing to stop the tears that finally broke through the dam of restraint, however, and within moments his face was awash with salty wetness.

 

How cruel. How cruel, whether it be his mind or his magic, to tempt him with visions of the past when he had finally allowed himself to let go, to cease caring anymore. It _wasn’t fair_.

 

The vision of Arthur dropped his attempt at a smirk in an instant and hastened to Merlin’s side. It wasn’t Merlin’s imagination that the bed sunk slightly under the weight of another person – or at least… he didn’t think it was; he couldn’t be certain – and it unnerved him terribly. He felt trembles grip his shoulders, shaking him with increasing persistence as though to dislocate him from his surroundings, but throughout it all Merlin couldn’t draw his blurred gaze from Arthur. Slowly he peeled his hand from his lips.

 

“…not fair. It’s not fair, why did it have to… why _now_ , when I finally…”

 

“What?” Arthur’s voice – _Arthur’s_ voice, because it was _his voice_ – was firm, almost demanding, yet even so couldn’t mask the concern growing with each word. “Merlin, tell me. What is it? Do you need something? What is it that you -?”

 

“Why _now_?” Merlin uttered hoarsely, emotion thickening his throat and making speech nearly impossible. “Why do I have to see you _now_ , after everything, when I’ve finally made up my mind? Are you trying to dissuade me, or is it some sort of punishment? I don’t understand what you want!”

 

A gentle, calloused hand wrapped around Merlin’s fingers where they’d fallen into his lap. It was large, warm and so unexpected that he started in a convulsion. The touch withdrew for a moment before resettling. “Merlin, tell me what you mean. I don’t understand you.”

 

“Why are you _here_?!”

 

It was almost a wail, though still muted with hoarseness, and even in the throughs of his confusion and misery Merlin heard it and cringed at how pathetic he sounded. He blinked furiously at the tears in his eyes, ridding them enough to be able to discern Arthur’s expression once more.

 

His friend, the image of his friend, appeared as a mixture of concern, confusion and, almost laughably, disgruntlement. _It’s so Arthur_ , Merlin thought, and the thought hurt, even unspoken as it was.

 

Arthur scooted slightly along the bed towards him, and Merlin couldn’t help but flinch once more. It felt so real, the warmth of another person, the touch of fingers clasping his hand. “I don’t really understand what you mean by that. I’m here because you’re here. Because you needed help. You almost died, Merlin.” There was seriousness in Arthur’s tone that Merlin had only heard precious few times in his life and oh so long ago; Arthur was emotionally invested in the situation, and that thought, that understanding… it hurt too.

 

“Too bad it didn’t work out,” Merlin muttered before he could catch himself. It was one of many problems with being alone, he’d discovered; thoughts just slipped out as words without a filter.

 

Arthur’s clasp on his hand became painfully tight. When he spoke it was in a growl. “Don’t you say that. Don’t you even think that. How could you, Merlin? You tried to kill yourself? What were you thinking?”

 

Merlin started at the vehemence of Arthur’s tone. Surely hallucinations weren’t supposed to be so aggressive. “What -?”

 

“ _Were_ you even thinking, you idiot? Did you even consider what would happen if you’d died? What about everyone you’d leave behind? What about Camelot and her people, Gaius and Guinevere, the Knights – Gwaine, can you even imagine how Gwaine would feel if he found out? And the war? Everything with Morgana? She may have been defeated but I sincerely doubt her subjects will slip into oblivion. You don’t think we could use your aid? You defeated most of our opposing forces with your magic and I may not be comfortable with it as of yet but I know when to utilise that which will aid the kingdom. And you were going to take that aid away?”

 

Merlin was only growing more and more confused by the second. Arthur’s words were far too fluent, far too structures, to be a product of his wayward imagination. It was unhinging, and he felt dizziness swell within him once more. “Arthur –“

 

“And what of me, hmm?” Arthur’s expression became severe at that. “You’re my manservant but you’re also my friend, Merlin. Would you really leave me like that, abandon me to face the future dangers alone?”

 

“But you never came back!” Merlin burst out, the words erupting on their own once more. His voice was still a croak, but it was loud enough to bring Arthur up short. “I waited and waited, Arthur, and you never came back! Maybe I was wrong, maybe you’re never going to, but I hoped and hoped, for so long, and it’s killing me anyway! I may as well finish the job myself!”

 

He was panting, gasping by the time his words stuttered to a bumbling halt. Tears dribbled down his cheeks once more, but he didn’t pay them any heed. He could still see this time, could make out Arthur’s expression: surprised, baffled, his disgruntlement bordering on anger only barely restrained for the moment. “What do you mean?” The tone was low, suspicious.

 

Merlin shook his head, glaring at the figment of his imagination with a resentment he didn’t feel. Or at least, he didn’t feel it for Arthur. “I waited for centuries, Arthur. Do you have any idea what that’s like? I’ve been alone for longer than I can fully remember. Do you know what _that’s_ like?” His shoulders were shaking with renewed vigour, making the gentle stability of Arthur’s handhold even more apparent. Something about that tickled at the back of Merlin’s mind, but he didn’t pause to consider it. “Abandon you? _I_ abandoned you? You _never came back_ , Arthur. There was no one to abandon!”

 

Confusion overwhelmed every other emotion on Arthur’s face. Confusion and wariness, as though he was coming to a realisation and it wasn’t favourable. “Merlin, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

 

Merlin coughed a harsh laugh, turning away from Arthur for the first time since he’d seen him. It was painful, as though he were tearing off one of his own limbs. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t even know why I’m sitting here talking to myself. This is stupid.”

 

“Yourself? I was under the impression you were talking to me.” Arthur’s voice was still wary but faintly bemused.

 

“You?” Merlin dropped his eyes down to their joined hands. With a half-hearted motion, he attempted to tug his own from Arthur’s grap. “You’re not even real.”

 

Arthur’s fingers tightened with that same painfulness as before, only tighter this time, enough that Merlin uttered a hiss of protest. “I’m not real? And just what gave you that impression?”

 

“Shut up, Arthur, I don’t want to do this anymore.”

 

“No, I don’t think I will. You’ll tell me what you mean. Why aren’t I real?”

 

“I don’t have to converse with hallucinations that don’t realise their own fictionality Merlin attempted to tug his hand from Arthur’s once more but it only seems to cause Arthur to tighten his grasp into a vice like grip.

 

“You dare to call your king a hallucination, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur drawled, and abruptly his voice was free of the anger and concern, even the wariness. He was the same disgruntled, entitled Arthur that Merlin knew from his youth, and that more than anything else drew Merlin’s eyes to his face once more. Arthur was staring at him with hooded eyes and a raised eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “I’ll have you know that I’m very real. Real enough to drag you sorry arse to Hospital, even.”

 

Staring at Arthur’s tightly grasping fingers, the words trickled into understanding at a delayed pace. Slowly, Merlin drew his eyes to Arthur’s face. He met his hooded eyes, uncomprehending. “W…what?”

 

“How many times does that make for me saving your life, Merlin? I think I’ve lost count.”

 

“Less times than I’ve saved yours, I’ll wager,” Merlin muttered distractedly. His hind was stuttering, short-circuiting as possibility set its claws into him. _No_ , _no it’s not possible… is it?_

 

“Saved mine? When have you…” Arthur paused, twisting his mouth wryly. “I suppose this is one of those instances you’ve helped me without my notice? With your magic, maybe?”

 

It dawned slowly, incredulously, and Merlin was left unable to reply to Arthur’s words in spite of the awakened surprise over his careless reference to Merlin’s magic. This was… how could it be… surely not, it wasn’t possible, he wasn’t… _How_?

 

“You’re… you’re really here?” Merlin’s voice was a whisper, hesitant and disbelieving. He felt almost too scared to voice his hope for fear it would shatter the illusion.

 

Arthur rolled his eyes, exasperated. “That is what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

 

“How? When? Where did you -?”

 

“I have no idea. I was hoping we could work that out when we get back to Camelot. If we ever make it back to Camelot. These physicians – they call themselves doctors – seem intent on keeping you here indefinitely, even after you’ve woken up. In case you…” Arthur stumbled to a halt, uncharacteristically tongue-tied. He paused for a moment, and Merlin saw his eyes flicker to the half-healed gash bared of bandages on Merlin’s arm, the stitching drawn like those of a patched doll up his arm. Merlin felt the sudden urge to cover his scars, to hide them from view. A mixture of guilt and humiliation flooded through him. _I would never want him to see that_ , whispered quietly in his mind, and in that moment Merlin realised that he had almost, nearly, accepted Arthur’s existence.

 

Arthur’s presence.

 

That Arthur was _here_.

 

The how was impossible, unbelievable, but somehow… some fifteen centuries of waiting, and Arthur had returned. Merlin wavered slightly, his dizziness returning in a wave that caused him to squeeze his eyes closed once more or risk sliding off the bed to fall flat on his face. Arthur, for all his pomp and exasperation, saw the issue immediately and, with more efficiency and gentleness than Merlin had thought him capable, bodily began rearranging Merlin back onto the bed in a heavy slump. Merlin felt a shiver ripple over his skin at the touch, the handling, but wasn’t sure if it was because it was Arthur who was helping him or simply that he made contact with anyone. It had been so long since he’d even spoken to someone.

 

And this someone, he wasn’t a hallucination. Arthur… he wasn’t a hallucination.

 

_Impossible...._

 

“You should lie down, rest and recover. We’ll probably have to set off as soon as you’re able.” Arthur’s voice sounded oddly hollow and distant in Merlin’s ears, and in a moment of panic he peeled his eyes open once more and sat up, prepared to launch himself after Arthur should he be departing.

 

Arthur wasn’t leaving, though. He was situated at Merlin’s side, the heat of his body seeping even through the hospital linens, through the ridiculously out-dated breeches and the comically out-of-place doctor’s jacket. Merlin realised detachedly that they might have been the very clothes that Arthur had… that he’d… _died_ in.

 

Because obviously Arthur didn’t know about Camelot becoming lost to time. About the end of the war against Morgana or the years of peace that followed. Which meant that he probably didn’t know what year it was, let alone _where_ he was.

 

“Camelot…” Merlin attempted, and had to pause to swallow.

 

“Yes, we’ll leave as soon as you’re able. Gaius will be able to help you with anything you need; he’ll make you well.” Arthur nodded resolutely, brooking no argument. He smoothed the blankets around Merlin in an oddly tender fashion.

 

Merlin shook his head slowly, gingerly attempting to avoid sending himself chasing another dizzy spell. “No, Arthur, we- we can’t go back to Camelot.”

 

Arthur paused in his smoothing. “What?”  
  
“We can’t go back –“

 

“I heard you.” The frown was as much in Arthur’s tone as upon his brow. “Why? What do you mean?”

 

Merlin swallowed once more. It was painful, and not just because his mouth was dry. He was rocking in the realisation that Arthur had returned – _Arthur had come back_ – and the thought that he’d have to explain the modern world to him was a daunting possibility. That he would have to further explain that Camelot, his home and Kingdom, not to mention everyone he loved, had ceased to exist… it still pained Merlin at times to consider, and he’d witnessed it all, if from a distance. How would Arthur take it?

 

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Merlin reached tentatively towards Arthur. He placed a hand that trembled only slightly upon his forearm and met Arthur’s gaze. The wariness had returned, that almost-realisation skirting just around the edges. He looked like a dog awaiting a beating and attempting to decide whether to take it or fight back.

 

“Arthur, you’ve… you’ve been gone for a very long time.”

 

“You said that,” Arthur replied slowly, wariness growing. “I don’t really understand what you mean. How long?”

 

Merlin had to forcibly urge himself to maintain eye contact. “A very long time. Arthur, it’s been… it’s been centuries. And Camelot – Camelot doesn’t exist anymore.”

 

The weight of Merlin’s comment settled slowly but firmly upon Arthur’s shoulders. Gradually but pervasively, like a crushing force dragging down his shoulders, Arthur sagged. It was horrifying. Merlin would have done _anything_ to spare his friend and king the worst news he could possibly offer.

 

“I’m so sorry, Arthur. I’m so, so –“

 

“I know, Merlin,” Arthur murmured. His voice was as broken as Merlin’s own. “I know you are.”

 

They subsided into silence, unmoving except for the moment Arthur raised his hand and clasped it firmly atop of Merlin’s. The simple contact was a feeble attempt to relieve the weight of grief, but it did help. Just a little.


	6. Retrospect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A bit of a wordy chapter, I'm afraid, but I feel it's necessary. Sorry if that disagrees with anyone.  
> Also, thank you to everyone who commented and kudos-ed on my last chapter! What a lovely bunch of readers you are; it must be the Merlin Effect :p  
> Enjoy!

They talked.

 

Not immediately. Not even after an hour. At first, Merlin and Arthur simply sat in silence, Merlin gradually coming to terms with the reality of Arthur’s return and Arthur likely doing the same the revelations Merlin had afforded him. He didn’t question the validity of Merlin claim, nor attempt to deny it. There was a deep, brooding cast to Arthur’s expression, quite far removed from the short-leashed temper he had once been so renowned for. The very temper that had gripped him when Merlin first met him. He simply sat on the side of the hospital bed considering, head bowed and one hand clasped over the top of where Merlin’s settled on his forearm.

 

For Merlin’s part, he wasn’t able to look away from Arthur. He couldn’t bring himself to tear his gaze from him. Though each passing moment reaffirmed Arthur’s claim that he _had_ returned, that he was truly here in St. Albert’s Hospital, the respectable little facility just outside of Glastonbury, and he wasn’t going to disappear in the moment that Merlin blinked… he couldn’t help himself.

 

It felt surreal. Both the most confusing and the most wonderful occurrence that could possibly have happened. Despite the faint worry that niggled at the back of Merlin’s mind, the worry that questioned what Arthur was doing back in the first place in what was supposed to be ‘Albion’s time of greatest need’, and despite the sorrow drawn upon his friend’s face, he couldn’t help the upwelling of joy, of relief, of ease. He felt as though he hadn’t experienced anything so profound since… since Arthur had died.

 

The thought that Merlin had nearly killed himself, had been so close to missing this, brought another wave of dizziness and nausea through him. It had been so logical at the time, still did seem logical when he considered the absence of Arthur entirely. But now, with Arthur returned? Merlin had to bite painfully into his lip to prevent himself from breaking down into a pool of hysteria.

 

So close. It had been so close.

 

Eventually they did speak. It was Arthur who began, questioning what had happened to his kingdom, and Merlin attempted to supply him with the answers he sought as gently as he could. That Camelot hadn’t been destroyed, simply that when the capitol of the United Kingdoms had relocated the city had dwindled and dwindled until it dissipated. From there, their quiet exchange of words drew onto the aftermath of the battle against Morgana’s forces, of the Knights and Arthur’s queen, of the people and their recovery.

 

Arthur took it all in without comment except to urge the conversation into different directions. Had the peace lasted? How had his kingdom fared before it had eventually died? How had the surrounding kingdoms responded? And, most painfully, how did they end? How did all of them – the people they had loved and ultimately lost – finally pass from the world?

 

Merlin tried to answer Arthur’s questions sufficiently, he really did. But somehow, despite having years – centuries – to recover himself, talking about Gwen and Gaius, Gwaine and Percival and Leon and Elyan, had reopened the patchiness of a long-unhealed wound that pulsed and ached with renewed intensity. It hurt more that Merlin hadn’t been there for most of their deaths; after the battle with Morgana, he simply couldn’t remain in Camelot and had wandered for years before returning. And even then he had rarely stayed for more than a brief visit. For it hadn’t taken long to realise that Merlin wasn’t ageing alongside his friends, and to remain in their midst while they grew older and the reality of being left behind set it was just too painful.

 

Arthur hadn’t judged him when he’d shamefully professed the facts of the situation. He hadn’t spoken much at all when Merlin finally paused at the end of a painful listing of deaths, aching with age-old loss. They’d subsided into silence again briefly, each caught in their own thoughts. Arthur didn’t sob or curse that he hadn’t been there, exclaiming his regrets in woeful cries. He simply took the knowledge; Merlin could almost see him handle it sorrowfully, gaze upon it mournfully, and file it away into the memories of the past.

 

He was surviving the revelations well. Remarkably well. Better than Merlin in his retelling of them. It was a little disconcerting but then… Arthur had always been strong, in an entirely different way to Merlin’s own strength. His grieving was silent, closeted, and enduring but not consuming. Watching him, Merlin was steadied, his own grief stabilised.

 

He’d missed that about Arthur, along with so much else.

 

From there, Arthur had taken over the talking. He explained to Merlin, his enraptured audience, the sequence that had befallen him since he’d awoken. He described his rescuers – jesters he called them, to Merlin’s brief and difficultly contained amusement, due to their outfitting in New Years revelry attire – and his mad rush through the city. How he had made his way into Merlin’s apartment building and found him, _saved_ him, and how they’d been swept up by the paramedics with the assistance of Merlin’s neighbour, Mrs. Browning. He mentioned, with wary confusion and retrospective consideration, the voices that had first awoken him, that had urged him to seek an unknown destination and somehow directing him towards that goal.

 

Merlin had his thoughts about the voices, suspicions he kept to himself. The first, the one Arthur had described as being a woman, he suspected to be Freya. Who else would be the owner of an ethereal, watery voice from the depths of the remains of the Lake? A distant, shadowed memory of a girl with dark hair and wide, frightened eyes flashed before Merlin’s eyes for an instant before fading. Yes, he believed it to be Freya.

 

As for the other voice… Arthur had said it sounded neither male nor female, and much ‘larger’ as he had described it. Merlin had his suspicions about that too, and would much like to seek the one he suspected to be the owner of such a voice in a search for answers. But now was not the time, and his attention was drawn swiftly back to Arthur as he objectively relayed the details of the hours after his awakening.

 

It was incredible, really, that Arthur hard survived so well. The city on the shores of what had once been the Lake of Avalon were as far removed from those o Camelot as the moon from the Earth. Not only the city itself, with its alternate, towering buildings, but every aspect of that which lived in it, from the technology and the vehicles that flooded the streets to the lifestyles of the people residing within them. Even the language was different to that of Camelot, a fact that confused Merlin; Arthur should not have been able to understand the people of Glastonbury, let alone conduct two-way communication. It was a mystery how that was even possible.

 

Merlin had grown with the world, alongside the blossoming civilisations and histories, the technologies that expanded and improved more and more rapidly with each passing decade. In recent years he had admittedly fallen behind in that regard; many things that were now commonplace he could profess to be largely unfamiliar with. He didn’t drive a car, and hadn’t even obtained his license. He’d never flown in a plane, nor used a computer, and though he could understand the usefulness and general functionality of a telephone, he rarely used them, too. The new mobile versions making their way onto the market simply seemed excessive, if perhaps beneficial in that they allowed for communication from just about anywhere.

 

Yet somehow Arthur had managed. He explained, a little ruefully, that he had been largely mentally removed from his surroundings for the first rush through it all, and the marvels that surrounded him had only just begun to set in. But even so, Merlin found it a little awe-inspiring how adaptable Arthur had been, how seemingly readily he accepted the ‘New World’. He did, however, struggle to explain to Arthur that the hospital was not in fact a cesspool for sorcerers and that which he perceived as being a product of magic was in fact technology.

 

That seemed to confuse Arthur to a degree he hadn’t been before. Apparently attributing the abnormalities around himself to magic had been something of a coping strategy for him. It had taken another extended pause of contemplation before they’d continued talking.

 

When they did, it was Arthur who spoke first once more. His voice was very solemn when he asked, “Merlin, why did you try to kill yourself?”

 

Merlin froze. It felt as though the very blood in his veins had stilled in its pumping, though his heart stuttered with incredible speed. The shame, the humiliation and, yes, even regret of what he’d done was new and raw, arising only when he had realised how close he had been to ending his life _just_ when Arthur returned. He hadn’t been regretful before, had embraced the prospect of death almost with relief. But now… now he felt only guilt, scolding himself for his own foolishness. The lingering thoughts, the drive that had urged him to spill his own blood, still hung around him, but not for a moment could he consider acting upon it. Not when Arthur was here.

 

Arthur _needed_ him. That was reason enough to stave off such attempts.

 

But because it was Arthur, that guilt… it was more painful than the muted throbbing in his wounds. Arthur would never be one to consider suicide, no matter how dire the circumstances. He was a fighter; he endured. That much was evidenced even by his response to being thrust into a world so vastly different to that he was familiar with.

 

Not Merlin. Merlin… he’d given up. He realised that, and though that realisation had been accepted long ago, it only brought shame upon him when he was directly faced with his polar opposite. He wanted to curl in upon himself and hide that part of him, that weakness.

 

He didn’t, though. He couldn’t. Because Arthur had asked him, and though it had been almost a demand, there had been gentleness and concern in his words, as though he was genuinely worried for Merlin. Worried as to what had pushed him into behaving in such a way.

 

Merlin was not foolish enough to believe that they weren’t friends. They were; dear friends, the best of friends in a way that hadn’t been influenced in the slightest by the fact that Merlin was Arthur’s manservant. At least, it hadn’t been in the end. They had always conversed in a casual manner, and even, with time, exchanged deep considerations and profound thoughts. It would not be astretch to claim that they had even grown deeper than friends in the final years before Arthur’s death. Though Merlin doubted Arthur perceived their relationship in quite the same way that he did, there had definitely been something more.

  
For a moment, before they had begun speaking, Merlin had worried that time and its effects would distance them, would make conversing impossible and stilted. It had been, for about a minute, before the words began to flow and impossibly it was as though no time had passed at all.

 

There were few people in Merlin’s life he would have felt comfortable enough discussing the entirety of his situation with, revealing that broken, darkened part of himself that had driven him past the extremes of his endurance. His mother would have been one of them, and perhaps Will when they had been at their closest. Flora, the young woman he had spent years studying with and come to know on such a profound basis that it was uncanny, and Locke who had been so oddly similar to Merlin that it would have been like speaking to himself. And Marcello, of course, but then Merlin had told Marcello everything, down to the depth of his relationship with Arthur. Yes, to any of them he may have revealed the cause for his depression and the downward spiral that ensued.

 

But confessing to Arthur? They had been close, but Merlin couldn’t shake the shame that battered away at him more and more strongly with each moment of hesitancy. He avoided Arthur’s gaze, affixing his stare upon their hands instead, and gnawed on his lip.

 

Finally, Arthur spoke up once more. The gentleness in his voice was nearly heartbreaking. “Please, Merlin. I just want to understand.”

 

How could Merlin deny him after that?

 

“I… I’m not going to try to justify what I’ve done,” Merlin began, and his voice was a croak again, barely a whisper. “I don’t think I could ever really explain why I… I mean, I don’t think you’d… I can’t –“

 

“Just try,” Arthur broke in through Merlin’s stuttering. Merlin raised his gaze slowly, nervous to meet Arthur’s own. The expression that met him wasn’t judgmental, however, not disappointed nor even pitying. It appeared that yes, Arthur truly did simply want to know.

 

That knowledge gave Merlin the courage to speak, pushing through the sickly feeling of fear and shame that was growing within him. He swallowed convulsively for a moment, struggling with his words, before attempting once more.

 

“Arthur, I’ve… I’ve been alive for a very long time. While you’ve been sleeping, I was alive for every moment of it. I’m not… Sometimes I wouldn’t really call it living, but I’ve been aware, and existing, for nearly fifteen hundred years.

 

“Even though it’s been so long, though, I don’t feel old. I don’t feel all that knowledgeable and I would never call myself wise.” Merlin’s mouth twisted ruefully at the thought and he dropped his gaze down to his hands once more. “I think to anyone else, that might seem strange; if I’ve lived for so long, you’d think I’d be an encyclopaedia of knowledge and experience that I could doll to just about everyone. It would certainly be helpful to the historians of the world.”

 

He paused, aware that he was drifting from the question and aware that such drifting was driven by hesitancy to admit what he could only see as a weakness in himself to Arthur. He steeled himself and launched once more into speaking, into baring his soul. _Like a Band-Aid; just do it quickly._ “The thing is, I’m not. I’m not wise, or all that experienced, even though I’ve lived for so long. The thing is that my memories don’t hold. They don’t stick. Most of the time I can only remember the people I’ve met and the places I’ve been, the things I’ve done, like a description from a book; I _know_ it, but it’s like I’m just a member of an audience. Like I wasn’t really a part of it.”

 

He closed his eyes as a stream of the detached memories chose that moment to flood his mind. Faces like portraits, dull and lifeless, images like the still-life frames of a photograph, memories of thing’s he’d learned, that he’d experienced, without the colourful attachment’s of joy and sorrow, of excitement and fear and anger. The gaping hole of loss, of where it _should_ have been, ached more than the gashes on his arms. A rush of tears threatened to burst forth once more, but Merlin determinedly pushed them back.

 

His mouth moved almost without his consent, speaking more to himself than to Arthur. “It scares me. It’s really, really scary. I don’t want to forget; I don’t want to lose the memories of the people I’ve loved before they left… before I lost them. There’s so many people, and they’re all forgotten by everyone except me. Even the people that the stories talk about, the ones that managed to make their way into history books; even they aren’t the same. It’s not _them_. They’re always watered down, parts of them are forgotten, what makes them _them_ are completely left out.

 

“And I’m forgetting it. So much, bits and pieces, I’ve forgotten, and it scares me to wonder what’s already gone that I don’t realise. What am I exactly if I don’t have those memories? I’d be losing everything that made me _me_. What’s the point?”

 

Merlin paused to take a deep breath. His throat was choking up, felt dry and sore. It made speaking painful, but he pushed himself to continue. He opened his eyes and raised them slowly to Arthur’s face, to the neutral expression that was devoid of emotion in a way that somehow made it easier for Merlin to speak. When he spoke it was directly to Arthur. “There was a prophecy that was given to me when you… when you died. On the shores of the Lake of Avalon. That the once and future king – you – would return when Albion’s need was greatest.

I think that’s what kept me going for so long, Arthur. That’s what stopped me from giving up each time someone I loved died. It was the thought that you’d return and that I would have to be here for you when you did. Except that you didn’t.”

 

Merlin’s voice sounded pathetically small, and he cringed at both the weakness and the almost-accusation of his words. “I’m not blaming you; of course not. It just wasn’t the right time. I know – _knew_ – that. But… but Arthur I waited, and I tried for so long to simply wait for you, but it scared me. What if when you actually came back I didn’t even remember you anymore? What good would I be to you then?”

 

“Merlin…“

 

“And what if the prophecy had it wrong? What if you weren’t really coming back?”

 

“Merlin, hold on –“

 

“I know it might seem like it was a rash decision, but I… but… I didn’t know what else to _do_. All I’ve done is wait and wait and –“

 

“ _Mer_ lin, _shut up_.”

 

Merlin felt as though his tongue had been snipped from between his teeth at Arthur’s clipped words. He cringed, bowing his head and hunching his shoulders. Arthur had every right to be angry; Merlin had just confessed that he had nearly abandoned Arthur to the modern world, a world of chaos and confusion when compared to Camelot, without a friend or guide. Of course he’d be angered.

 

“Merlin, look at me.” Arthur’s voice was commanding, yet somehow gentle. Merlin cringed further, attempting to tug his hands away from their hold on Arthur’s arm. Arthur wouldn’t let him. “Please.”

 

Slowly, warily, Merlin raised his gaze. The expression on Arthur’s face was entirely unexpected; not a hint of anger coloured his features, but rather the dimness of sadness, of sympathy and concern and… and affection. Confused though it left Merlin, he couldn’t help the relief that washed through him at the sight. Or more, at the absence of disgust or anger, irrational as he knew the former truly was.

 

Arthur leant forward slightly. His stare was fixed, intense, and a little intimidating. “You’ve been by yourself this whole time?”

 

Opening his mouth to reply, Merlin hesitated. No, not really alone. There had been people, friends and almost-family, whom he had loved and cherished along the way. And yet each of them he had lost. Turning his chin towards the closed door into the room – anywhere to look away from Arthur – he shrugged.

 

There was silence for a moment. “Merlin, I’m so sorry.”

 

It was so unexpected that Merlin whipped his head back around in a jerk. “What?”

 

Sadness was drawn thickly across Arthur’s face, overriding all else. “I’m sorry. Sorry you were left alone, that you waited for so long. That you were driven to such a state that you felt you had no other option.” His voice was sincere, slightly husky with emotion that Merlin mind was too sluggish to comprehend. “I’m just… I’m sorry.”

 

Merlin felt as though his eyebrows were going to climb right into his hairline. Slowly, he shook his head. Arthur’s reply had taken a direction he had not considered for even a moment. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

 

“I made you wait. You said it yourself, that you’d waited and waited and I didn’t come back.” Abruptly, Arthur’s eyes snapped up to Merlins and he grasped his hand in both of his own, squeezed it tightly, insistently, as though attempting to force Merlin’s understanding through sheer force. “And for that I am sorry.”

 

Merlin’s expectations were tilted on their axis. Arthur was a just and compassionate king, fair to his subjects and his friends. And yet, for whatever reason, Arthur had always treated Merlin a little differently. Not better or worse exactly, but different. And for that reason more than anything else, Merlin somehow expected him to treat him differently once more.

 

“You –” his voice caught and he had to clear his throat. “You have nothing to apologise for, Arthur. If anyone should be sorry, I –“

 

“No, Merlin, you shouldn’t. You’ve been through so much – you have – and it would be next to impossible to survive as much even half as well as you did.”

 

“Not so well, really,” Merlin muttered.

 

Arthur’s finger’s tightened their hold again, that nearly-painful tightness that bespoke years of strong clasping of a sword’s hilt. “Yes well. You have, Merlin. You really have.”

 

Merlin couldn’t reply to Arthur’s sincerity. To Arthur’s comforting. When they had known one another in the long-ago past, it was more likely to be Merlin attempting to comfort Arthur in a roundabout way, treading carefully over the emotional landmines to avoid seeming to pity yet offering support nonetheless. Since then, Merlin had so rarely gotten close enough to anyone to share his deepest fears and worries. That the person who would so readily offer compassion and comfort was _Arthur_ … it was surreal.

 

They sat quietly for a time, simply stewing in the aftermath of Merlin’s words. For himself, Merlin felt deflated, exhausted in a way that even his weakness upon awakening differed. And yet, mentally wearied as he was, he felt a profound sense of relief, a rush of gratitude towards Arthur. For he’d confessed the darkness and fear that had manifested and grown inside of him and, far from rejecting him or disdaining him, Arthur had apologised.

 

_Arthur_ had _apologised_.

  
The very thought was so out of character, so unexpected, that Merlin felt a hiccup of laughter bubble from his lips before he could prevent its escape. Arthur glanced towards him, lifting an eyebrow suspiciously in a way that was much more like the Arthur Merlin remembered.

 

“What?”

 

Merlin shook his head, but was saved from more fully replying by the opening of the door to the room. A nurse dressed in a pale blue uniform and carrying a clipboard stepped through the door. She was a short woman, plump with greying hair cut in a bob and rectangular glasses upon her nose. At the sight of Arthur and Merlin sitting awake on the bed she faltered to a stop with an exclamation.

 

“Mr. Emerson, you’re awake!”

 

Merlin felt himself grow wary immediately and had to force the feeling down. He attempted a friendly smile but feared it fell dismally short. “Hello.”

 

“How are you feeling?” The nurse – Maria, from her name tag just visible in the dimness – asked as she stepped into the room. Bustling towards the hospital bedside, she spared Arthur only a brief glance before shifting her full attention onto Merlin. “You’ve been asleep for nearly two days. Much longer and we’d have started to worry.” She smiled in a disarming fashion that served only to make Merlin more wary.

  
He didn’t mean to be cautious of others. Merlin had always gotten on well with people; he enjoyed others’ company and didn’t think he was arrogant in claiming that others tended to enjoy his too. But it had been so long since he’d actually truly gotten to know anyone, exchanged even casual, easy conversation, that he felt as though he were treading deep water and peering nervously at the dark depths beneath him. With Arthur, it had felt different; the long-forgotten ease of companionship had rekindled without a hitch as they fell back into the paces they’d walked so long ago.

 

Merlin didn’t know Maria. He didn’t know any of the doctors or nurses in the hospital and, given his circumstances and patient status, there was one primary point of view through which they perceived him. He found he didn’t much like to contemplate it, to be seen as unstable and in need of care. He liked even less the knowledge that they would not simply leave him be when he had the energy and had recovered enough to take himself from their care.

 

He couldn’t stay there. Arthur couldn’t stay there. Which meant they needed to leave as soon as possible.

 

Maria had bustled about the room, spreading the curtains to allow glaring light to seep through the window. She disappeared briefly in a bustle and returned with a moment later heart–monitor and blood-pressure machine from which she proceeded to take Merlin’s measures. He wasn’t particularly unfamiliar with the process, though he’d never experienced it directly himself, but Arthur looked thoroughly disconcerted by the inflation of the arm-cuff and the sporadic beeping of the machines. Luckily Maria appeared to have shunted him to the side, overlooking him as simply another piece of furniture as she scribbled notes onto her clipboard.

 

“Your temperature’s very low still, and blood pressure, naturally,” she muttered more to herself than to Merlin. She glanced up at him when she’d finished. “How are you feeling, Mr. Emerson? Any light-headedness? Dizziness? Nausea?”

 

Merlin shook his head quickly in dissent; he wasn’t feeling particularly unwell at that moment, though he’d be lying if he said he felt wholly hail. His arms throbbed more strongly the longer he was awake – or perhaps it was simply becoming more noticeable – and he felt a heaviness of his limbs that nearly sagged him back into the bed. He wouldn’t indicate as much to the nurse, however, nor let it slow him. Because Merlin had made his decision. They had to leave and no feebleness on his part was going to slow them. He couldn’t stay at the hospital and Arthur certainly couldn’t; as far as being a citizen of Britain, Arthur didn’t even exist.

 

Maria was saying something that Merlin didn’t even hear and he had to shake his head to clear it before asking her to repeat herself. She gave him a subdued, knowing smile. “I just said that I’m sure Dr. Malcolm would likely want to see you as soon as possible. I’ll make sure you get a meal sent up for dinner and we can see about having him come in to talk to you. I think the sooner the better, hm?”

 

Despite the frantic disagreement in Merlin’s mind, he nodded with an attempt at sheepishness. It seemed to suffice for Maria for she nodded her own reply, tucked her clipboard to her chest and turned from the room. Merlin didn’t miss the fact that she left the door slightly ajar.

 

“I’ve been wondering,” Arthur began, drawing Merlin’s attention to him where he stood slightly to the side of the bed. Not for the first time, Merlin noted how the words were very distinctly Brittanic, not a hint of English to their tones. “Jack Emerson? What kind of a name is that?”

 

Merlin shrugged. “It’s a fake name.”

 

“Yes, I’d gathered as much. Why would you need to use a fake name? Are you hiding from someone? I didn’t think you’d need to mask your identity given how long it’s been since you were supposed to have been alive.”

 

“I’m not hiding from anyone,” Merlin replied, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “It’s just that every few decades I need to outfit myself with a different name, otherwise people get suspicious about how I’m actually still alive. It wasn’t such a problem a century ago, but in more recent years, what with government census and all, it’s a little hard to hide it otherwise.”

 

“Government census? What is – Merlin, what are you doing?”

 

Turning from where he peered through the crack in the door – it had taken an effort to push himself from the bed but he’d managed well enough, though his legs felt as wobbly as those of a newborn colt – and glanced towards Arthur. “Arthur, we need to leave.”

 

Arthur frowned, crossing his arms across his chest in a way that Merlin remembered – he _remembered_ – as being the rapid slide into mulish stubbornness. “Why?”

 

“Because,” Merlin leant again the door for support, though he tried to keep the motion obscure. He wasn’t sure how successful his attempt was. “If we stay here, then the doctors will start asking questions. And we can’t afford to have them ask questions, not about me and definitely not about you.”

 

“You’re unwell,” Arthur replied, stubbornly overlooking most of what Merlin had said. “You can’t leave now; you look like you’re on the verge of collapse as it is.”

 

So no, evidently Merlin hadn’t hidden his physical weakness quite as well as he’d hoped.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Merlin refuted, pushing off the door and standing straight once more. It took more effort than he would have cared to admit. “I’ll manage. We need to leave.”

 

“And the physicians? Or doctors – whatever they’re called. You don’t think they’ll be suspicious?” Arthur was taking slow steps towards him, his frown deepening and gaze intense.

 

“They will most likely, for a while at least. But I’ll just let Jack Emerson disappear; there’s always another name, and when people disappear even the police will stop searching eventually.” Merlin waved a hand, brushing off Arthur’s concern. He wasn’t particularly worried about ‘disappearing’; he knew he could manage it. The character of Jack was a temporary one, and not particularly prominent at that. He’d not been much of a figure in society, to say the least, and even if he did disappear and all of his assets rendered untouchable… well, Merlin had numerous bank accounts anyway, and more than enough money to support both himself and Arthur. They would manage.

 

“You know that’s not what I’m referring to,” Arthur grumbled. He’d stopped barely a foot away from Merlin, staring at him unblinkingly. “The doctors said you needed to stay here. So they can make sure you’re alright.”

 

“I’ll be fine, Arthur. My magic always heals me faster than normal people, and after a meal or two I’m sure I’ll feel better.” For the first time in so long, Merlin actually found he felt a pang of hunger in his gut. It had been so long since he’d had any such signals that it felt strange.

 

“That’s not what I meant either.” Arthur paused, pursed his lips and lifted his chin. “These doctors, they said that someone who’d been through what you had needed something called intensive care, especially early on. They said that people who attempt… attempt suicide are likely to reattempt shortly afterwards if they can manage it. I think it would maybe be better if we stayed.”

 

Understanding finally dawned and with it arose a wave of betrayal. Merlin felt his face slip into a visage of hurt, his shoulders hunching and the physical urge to withdraw from Arthur arise. _Arthur_ thought that? _Arthur_ would believe he’d try to kill himself again? That… that…

 

_…was entirely rational,_ a hushed, guilty voice whispered in the back of Merlin’s head. Because really, he hadn’t given Arthur any reason to refute the words the doctors had likely been impressing upon him the last few days. _Two whole days_ , Merlin pondered, a little disbelieving. So much could have happened in such a short time, and most likely the doctors – Dr. Malcolm, was it? – had stopped by on at least one occasion. Merlin didn’t know exactly why Arthur had been allowed to stay by his side, as his ‘babysitter’ of sorts, he supposed – he didn’t know what relationship the doctors thought they shared but was fairly certain that right was usually reserved for family – but he was thankful for the fact. He was not, however, ignorant enough to believe that the doctors would consider Arthur’s companionship sufficient enough to stave of future attempts at taking his own life.

 

Even if it was.

 

Because it _was_. Like a switch had been flicked in Merlin’s head, the obsessive fixation, the almost compulsive desire to simply put an end to everything, had all but disappeared. He hadn’t realised how consuming it was until its loud voice had hushed, but without the rigid confines shrouding his mind he saw how consuming it had been.

 

Which was to say very. The overpowering sense of helplessness, of uselessness and redundancy, had overridden his very will to live.

 

But now?

 

The fear was still there. The urgency to be _needed_ , to have _purpose_. But overriding even that was determination. How could he leave Arthur? In an unfamiliar world, lost and alone in a more profound sense than even Merlin had been, how could he possible subject his friend and king to that?

 

No, it wasn’t going to happen. Merlin would _never_ leave Arthur. To serve him, to stand by his side: that was Merlin’s destiny. It always had been and always would be, even in Arthur’s absence. He knew that now, in a deeper way than he had comprehended throughout the long years of waiting for Arthur’s return. And with Arthur alive and awake in the world once more? There was nothing that could possibly draw Merlin from his side.

 

“Arthur, I’m not going to try to kill myself. Not again.”

 

The look of uncomfortable uncertainty that flickered briefly across Arthur’s face was all the indication Merlin needed at the accuracy of his assumption. Arthur shifted slightly from foot to foot. Thankfully, though, he didn’t belittle Merlin by denying his words. “How can I be sure of that? The doctors, they said it could and most likely would happen again. That they’d need to write up a risk assessment or something and sort out a response strategy and action plan and such to work at helping you to heal.” He looked deadly serious as he spoke, regurgitating monotonously the words that so obviously came from the doctors.

 

Merlin urged himself to straighten in his stance, loosening his shoulders and lifting his own chin. They were nearly eye level, the two of them; Merlin had forgotten that, though Arthur may be broader, he was slightly taller. It was the little things that he forgot, and the inconsequential knowledge both delighted and pained Merlin. “That would be true for most people, I’m sure. But not for me.”

 

Arthur snorted. “Oh really? Are you particularly special or something?”

 

“You mean other than being one of very few sorcerers left in existence?” A smile crept unrequested onto Merlin’s face. It felt unfamiliar, tugging at his features in a nostalgic way that felt strangely good. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

 

“Other than the sorcery? Are you also a hidden knight as well as an abominable clutz?” Arthur rolled his eyes. It was a relief to see after the intensity of his previous stare. “Tell me exactly, what about you is ‘so special’.”

 

He said it mockingly, but with a genuine note of curiosity that caused Merlin to smile. For all his posturing, Arthur actually did believe him capable of something. That in itself was knew; Merlin recalled Arthur largely deeming him _incapable_. “It’s simple. I have you.”

 

Arthur’s mocking stare faded in an instant. “What?”

 

“I have you with me, don’t I?” Merlin shrugged. “I figure you’d probably forbid me from ever doing it again, and I don’t think I’d be able to bring myself to do it now.”

 

“I would,” Arthur nodded slowly. “But you don’t think you could do it? Why?”

 

Merlin raised an eyebrow, running his eyes over Arthur pointedly. “Isn’t it obvious? I’ll have to stay here for you.”

 

“For me?”

 

“Of course. This is a new world, Arthur. You’d be lost without me.”

 

Merlin spoke coyly, without much sincerity at all, but Arthur’s voice was incredibly solemn as he replied. “Yes. I would be, wouldn’t I?”

 

Merlin’s smile faded. “Hey, I didn’t mean to suggest you were incompetent or anything. You managed pretty well waking up by yourself and trekking halfway across town.” Which was true; Merlin still marvelled that Arthur had managed that. He’d like to know a little more about it actually. Maybe if they asked _her…_

 

“No,” Arthur replied, shaking his head with continued solemnity. “I mean it, Merlin. I really would be lost without you.”

 

The words carried a weight to them that Merlin couldn’t quite understand, though it filled him with warmth. He pondered it for a moment before deciding to take it at face value; as Merlin clung to Arthur, Arthur would likely be the same to him. He was, after all, the only person from the ironically-named Arthurian period that still existed.

 

“Regardless,” Merlin continued, gently placing the conversation to the side. “We can’t stay here. And so long as you’re with me, we don’t need to.”

 

“You could still do with some rest,” Arthur commented, shifting his gaze briefly to where Merlin slumped against the door slightly again. He hadn’t even noticed he’d done it. “And something to eat. The food here, it tastes strange, but it is edible enough.”

 

Merlin felt another smile arise at that. _The food…_ _Oh Arthur, if only you knew that the food was only the smallest part of everything that has changed_. Merlin would enjoy introducing Arthur to the marvels of the modern world. He wondered how Arthur would react to electricity and all it enabled. “There’s time for that later. We can get around to it. What I do need,” Merlin glanced quickly down at himself, grunted in disgruntlement, “are clothes. I can’t image I’ll be very inconspicuous wandering through town in a hospital gown.”

 

“Yes, it is quite unflattering. I never thought to see you in a dress, Merlin, and definitely not one quiet so scandalous.”

 

Merlin scowled at Arthur’s smirk, but there was little heat to it. “It’s not a dress, Arthur. And if you think this is scandalous, you’re going to be thoroughly disconcerted by what everybody else wears.”

 

Arthur only shrugged, looking immensely pleased with himself. Merlin rolled his eyes, turning towards the door. “Come on, then. We’ll have to get out of here before Maria pops back in. Or worse, one of the doctors.”

 

“Dr. Malcolm,” Arthur supplied.

 

“Yes, thank you, Arthur, for than invaluable piece of information.”

 

Arthur, surprisingly, only snorted and chuckled in reply, and as Merlin eased the door open and quickly urged Arthur through, he couldn’t keep his own smile from surfacing once more.


	7. Novelty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I apologise in advance. This is a bit of a short - and truncated - chapter, but I didn't really have another choice. The rest of the chapter, which has become the next one, was just waaaaaay too long otherwise.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy! If you could, I'd love to hear any questions, comments or suggestions you might have. It's always lovely to hear from any and everyone; it makes my day!

Getting out of the hospital was surprisingly easy. It was not late enough for visiting hours to have ended and Merlin found that even the nurses didn’t appear particularly suspicious so long as deliberate sneaking behaviours were kept to a minimum. He was even able to filch a pair of scrubs and thin slippers from a storage room, exchanging it thankfully for his hospital gown, without raising any eyebrows.

 

Granted, magic probably had a little bit to do with it, what with the diversions and semi-concealments. It was a remarkably convenient tool at times, though it did leave Merlin more drained than he’d anticipated.

 

The receptionist at the desk at the front entry only spared them a brief glance – again deterred by magic – and within ten minutes of leaving the room Merlin and Arthur were making their way to the nearest train station. Arthur surprisingly followed silent and unquestioning in Merlin’s wake, keeping his head down and eyes trained on his ragged boots. It was an oddly diminutive stance, and Merlin felt an upwelling of protectiveness arise within him. It struck him again that Arthur was as familiar with the twentieth century – or twenty-first now, he supposed – as Merlin himself was with Mars. He remained silent, however; he didn’t think that verbal reassurance would serve its intended purpose. Arthur was more likely to growl at him and exclaim that he was not in the least bit disconcerted with the situation, no matter how rapidly his eyes flickered at the surrounding buildings or how he violently flinched at passing cars.

 

It was a relatively short trek to the station, though the coldness of mid-winter had turned bitter even before dark, drawing shivers and urging Merlin to wrap his arms around himself. There was no snow falling, but ice slicked the ground and seeped wetly through Merlins not-quite-shoes, chilling him almost painfully. Blessedly there was no wind, but the iciness was taking its toll well enough.

 

When they finally descended into the underground, he was feeling the weakness of his limbs. The effects of blood loss and, he admitted self-deprecatingly, the general mistreatment of his own body were making themselves known through rising aches and rapid weariness. He stumbled slightly down the steps to the descending steps into artificial lighting, borrowed and ill-fitting slippers sliding on the filthy floor. It was only Arthur swiftly grabbing his arm that saved him from face-planting.

 

Merlin gave Arthur a sheepish grin. “I knew I brought you along for a reason.” Arthur only raised an eyebrow and rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath something that sounded like “ _you_ bring _me_ along?” Merlin didn’t miss the fact that he walked a step closer to Merlin’s side from that moment, however.

 

They didn’t have any money. Of course Arthur didn’t, but neither did Merlin for all his supposed knowledge and understanding of the modern world. He hadn’t exactly prepared himself with ready cash or card for the future inevitability of train travel two days prior to that moment. It wasn’t really a problem, however; Merlin had discovered, quite by chance some years ago, that a well-aimed spark of magical energy to just about anything electrical could send it stuttering into uselessness and rebooting the system. He applied that practical knowledge to the barricade at the station, slipping easily through the turnstile and pausing only to urge Arthur to follow him when Arthur paused and eyed the channels uneasily. The station attendant didn’t comment, didn’t even appear to notice them pass. Lucky, Merlin supposed, that the station appeared to be only sparsely filled with travellers; he suspected it was likely the weekend, but hadn’t the calendar reference to know for certain.

 

They settled themselves onto one of the many empty seats on board an empty carriage. Companionable silence fell upon them, Merlin resting drowsily against the wall, head jostling slightly with the thrumming vibrations of the train while Arthur kept up a constant scan of their surroundings surroundings. Keeping watch for a possible threat, Merlin suspected, if the tension of his muscles was any indication.

 

He watched Arthur for a few minutes, studying him as he turned his head slowly one way up the length of the carriage, then the other and then back again. The flinches he’d fallen prey to on the city streets were mirrored almost imperceptibly with each particularly large jostle of the train. It likely wasn’t doing any favours in terms of easing nervousness. “It’s okay, you know. No one’s going to attack us or anything.”

 

Arthur glanced at him sideways. “You know that for a fact?”

 

Merlin shrugged one shoulder, letting his eyes slide closed. “Pretty much. People don’t just up and attack random strangers nowadays. You’ll get charged for that.”

 

“So you don’t really know for sure.”

 

“I know well enough, Arthur,” Merlin sighed, not even bothering to open his eyes. “And besides, even if they do they won’t be a problem for us.”

 

Arthur was silent for several long moments, so long that Merlin nearly drifted off to sleep; uncomfortable as the train seat was, he felt more at ease than he had in… in he couldn’t even remember how long. A murmur of, “we don’t even have anything to defend ourselves with. Of course I’d be wary,” drew him back into wakefulness again. He cracked open an eye.

 

Arthur was still peering at him sideways, an expression of concern upon his face that he quickly vanquished when he noticed Merlin looking back at him. He seemed actually more concerned for Merlin’s wellbeing than for any external threat. It was oddly touching, enough that Merlin kept his reply gentle. “You might not, but I do. I assure you Arthur, if anyone tries to attack us, I’ll be more than happy to hit them right back with my magic.” Which, he realised, was entirely true. He hadn’t used magic all that much for so long, and definitely not for violent or defensive purposes, but it wasn’t a skill that got rusty. How could it, when it was so much a part of who Merlin was? And to protect Arthur he would use it in a heartbeat. That was something that had never, and _would_ never, change.

 

Arthur frowned, though not in anger. More consideration. “We’ll have to have a talk about that. Your magic.” His tone was low and thoughtful. No, definitely not angry. Just curious.

 

“We will,” Merlin agreed, his stomach flipping at the prospect but not so much in dread this time. They fell into silence for the rest of the journey.

 

The trip on foot from the station to Merlin’s apartment was a little shorter than that from the hospital, for which Merlin was grateful. He led Arthur unerringly, crossing roads and slipping down side alleys as shortcuts. Arthur was in his ‘alert and watchful’ state once more, even more than he had been on the train, and Merlin couldn’t bring himself to offer either comfort or explanation to attempt to put him at ease. How could he? The former would likely be shunned and the latter would take far too much time and breath that Merlin needed in increasing amounts with each step they took.

 

The apartment building was, as always, quiet and dimly lit. It was one of the reasons Merlin had chosen it in the first place. He hadn’t need anything grand, and the privacy that was provided by the out-of-the-way locale was greatly appreciated. The privacy of the neighbours, too; Merlin had only ever spoken to Mrs Browning on his level and Mitch from down on the ground floor, and the words they’d exchanged weren’t particularly profuse. Which was good, really. It would make drawing Jack into extinction that much easier.

 

He led Arthur up the stairs for he hadn’t seemed particularly comfortable with the elevator at the hospital. The one in the apartment building was older and less stable in its jolting ascent and descent. Merlin himself never felt particularly comfortable with it himself; it always felt on the verge of sighing its last groaning breath and snapping loose of its cables.

 

Still, he was regretting the decision a little when they reached the fifth floor and his legs felt on the verge of collapsing from beneath him. It was more embarrassing than he’d expected it to be noticing Arthur’s continued sidelong stare, the half-rise of his arm as though he was ready to catch Merlin should his limbs decide to turn in early for the evening. It was a blessing when they stopped before Merlin’s door and even more so when the doorknob turned at his behest.

 

It was cold inside the apartment. Cold and dimly lit except for the bright yellow-white light peering tentatively through the half-open bathroom door. With unconsciously fumbling fingers, Merlin flicked on the main light switch and blinked rapidly to adjust his eyes. The overhead light illuminated his familiar scant furnishings, revealing the almost pitiful room in dejected accents to the naked eye.

 

The apartment was small but functional. A box-like arrangement of living room seeped into kitchen, bathroom and bedroom, intended for one person and one person only. Yet even small as it was it didn’t appear cluttered. Merlin had outfitted it with a second-hand couch and chipped coffee table that removed the need for a dining table entirely, a narrow, mostly empty bookshelf, minimal kitchen appliances and only a single bed and small wardrobe in the bedroom.

 

Yes, minimal was the kindest word for it. Because it wasn’t like Merlin actually needed anything. He hadn’t – at _all_ – for the last few years. No, Merlin had barely really even lived at all.

 

On the positive side, however, at least it would mean less that would be confronting and incomprehensible to Arthur as he was introduced to the first home of his new world. He had taken most of the strangeness of modernity remarkably well, but Merlin hadn’t missed the little twitches of unease that arose so often, particularly with anything technological. Merlin ruefully thanked the listlessness that had urged him not to bother with purchasing a television, let alone a computer.

 

“Wait here a moment, I’ll go and grab us some clothes.” Stepping towards the bedroom, Merlin made a vague gesture towards the couch.

 

“I’ve perfectly good clothes already, Merlin,” Arthur replied, his tone a drawl yet somehow subdued.

 

Merlin paused mid-step, raising an eyebrow at Arthur and pointedly running his eyes over the doctor’s coat and worn undergarments beneath. “Yeah, ‘cause you won’t stand out in them at all.”

 

Arthur frowned, crossing his arms petulantly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“Surely you’ve noticed that people wear clothes a little different to those that were worn Camelot.”

 

Arthur was silent for a moment, glaring at Merlin. Finally, he nodded. “Alright. But I doubt I’d even fit into any of _your_ clothes. You’re a twig, Merlin.”

 

“Thank you for your glowing compliment,” Merlin muttered over his shoulder, stepping into the bedroom and disappearing from Arthur’s view. He tugged open the wardrobe door and riffled efficiently through its similarly minimalistic contents, discarding unusable itself to the floor. “We’ll stop off at the nearest BHS or something and get you clothes that actually fit,” he called just loud enough to be heard from the next room as he pulled a large jumper that had always been too big for him, a shirt and a pair of loose-fitting trousers from the wardrobe. He threw them towards Arthur who had, naturally, disregarded his direction to be seated and was standing in the doorway before diving back into the wardrobe again.

 

“BHS?”

 

“It’s just a local home store,” Merlin explained distractedly, pulling out a pair of jeans and jumper for himself. “Sells clothes and stuff.”

 

Arthur’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “And this BHS… it is this city’s markets?”

 

Merlin paused in the act of closing the wardrobe doors. His tilted his head thoughtfully; he hadn’t even considered something as simple as a modern shop to be anything noteworthy or even that unusual, but further thought had him realising the reality of it. For stores – stores that offered everything you could possibly need right on hand – had only really been around for the past few decades.

 

 _How strange to think_. Merlin hadn’t realised how easily he’d adapted to the changing world, but it became apparent at that moment. At least, the provisions for living the fast life certainly weren’t unusual to him. He wondered what Arthur would think of the grocery store; having a surplus of food on hand all year round – and exotic foods too – was actually quite a marvel.

 

“I guess you could say it’s a little like the markets, yes,” Merlin ceded, because attempting to explain it all now would take far to long and far too much brain power. They needed to get out of the apartment as quickly as they could, away from anything linking them to Jack Emerson. Merlin wasn’t sure what the hospital would do when they realised he was gone, if they hadn’t already – would they send someone for him? Perhaps call the police? – but he didn’t want to stick around to find out. “Come on, we’ll get changed and get out of here. I don’t think it’s a good idea to stick around.”

 

Arthur nodded his head, though whether from agreement or simple acknowledgement of Merlin’s words was uncertain. He followed Merlin back into the living room and actually began slipping the shoes of his feet upon urging direction when Merlin’s his eyes caught on the bathroom door, on the light seeping from inside. So close to the door, to the smell of soap and that clean coldness that clung to tiles, brought forth a flush of memories.

 

_That was where I…_

 

Drawn like a magnet, unwilling yet unable to resist, Merlin took hesitant steps towards the bathroom door. He reached forward and just gently urged it open, the hinges sliding with the faintest of squeaks.

 

The scene that met him was not pretty. Not in the slightest. Merlin immediately felt his stomach rebel, sickened by the streaks of blood on the floor atop what looked to be a discarded, filthy coat, by the wine-red water pooling thickly in the tub and staining the white porcelain a rusty red. Memories of New Years Eve flickered into his mind and the gashes on his forearms throbbed in phantom sympathy. He knew with a feeling of detached morbidity that within the depths of that bath water, mixed in a stew with his own blood, was the knife he’d turned upon himself. A shiver rippled through him and his stomach clenched again, more painfully this time.

 

A touch on his shoulder brought Merlin jerking back to reality. Flinching slightly he half-turned towards Arthur. He couldn’t quite meet his eyes; the shame had returned alongside a nearly overpowering sense of guilt.

 

Arthur wasn’t looking at him, his own eyes fixed upon the bloody scene before them. His face was rigid, his lips thinned and Merlin wasn’t sure but he thought his cheeks may have paled slightly. _I’ve hurt him. With what I did, I unwittingly hurt him badly._

 

“I’m so sorry, Arthur. I…”

 

The words, barely a croak, were out of his mouth before Merlin could catch them. He bit his lip, shoulders hunching and dropped his chin to avoid the gaze that turned upon him. He couldn’t – _couldn’t_ – meet Arthur’s eyes. He didn’t want to see what swum within them, which of the many possible emotions – sadness, worry, disapproval, pain – he might see.

 

Arthur didn’t say anything at first. Silent and still, Merlin could feel his gaze settle, spearing him intensely, but still couldn’t bring himself to meet them. Finally, Arthur’s hand came to rest upon his shoulder once more. It was a gentle touch that was almost more painful than a cuff over the head for its kindness.

 

“And I told you, you have nothing to apologise for.” Without another word, Arthur tugged Merlin away from the bathroom and drew the bathroom door closed. By unspoken agreement they mutually decided to place the situation to the side.

 

At least for the moment.

 

Arthur complained about the clothes. Of course he did, and though it left Merlin fondly exasperated, he was grateful for the abrupt distraction from the heavy cloud that had threatened to rain upon him after seeing red and white scene now hidden behind the closed door. They kept up a short, light-hearted banter throughout the entire changing process, a conversation of sorts that ended when Merlin attempted to hand Arthur a pair of boots that Arthur resolutely refused to accept.

 

“They wouldn’t fit my feet.”

 

“They’re better than the ones you’ve got on now.”

 

“They most certainly are not.”

 

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Arthur, they’re falling apart at the seams. Just take the bloody shoes.”

 

Arthur was nothing if not stubborn however, and Merlin eventually gave up. They didn’t have time for him to baby Arthur into being a ‘good boy’, so instead he discarded them back into the wardrobe when he returned to the bedroom in search of a rucksack and the secreted collection of bank cards and passports he kept in a locked safe beneath his bed. He returned shortly after to find Arthur still tugging at the navy jumper he was wearing. It fit him relatively well, but Merlin objectively recognised the need to get him some clothes purchased for himself.

 

“What did you say this was made from? It’s very fine material.”

 

Biting back the urge to smirk, Merlin shrugged. “I don’t know, probably cotton or something. It’s not that thick, I’m sorry. We’ll get you something warmer.”

 

“Something just as fine?”

 

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Merlin rolled of his eyes. “Only the best for you.” He didn’t inform Arthur that ‘something just as fine’ would likely only cost about twenty pounds from any local department store. How times had changed; even little things like the make of simple clothing were vastly different.

 

Slinging the rucksack over his shoulder, Merlin beckoned Arthur to follow him. “Come on, we should get going.”

 

“You had somewhere in mind?” Arthur asked, surprisingly following with little ceremony. Merlin almost expected him to dig his heels in just for the hell of it.

 

“Food first. Then clothes. Then… we’ll see. I have an idea, but…” He trailed off thoughtfully as they stepped into the hallway, closing the door to the apartment behind them and making their way towards then down the stairwell.

 

Arthur made an appreciative noise, the hum echoing slightly off the unplastered brick walls. “Food sounds good. But what’s this idea of yours? It sounds dangerous.”

 

Merlin raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t expanded on his thoughts at all. What about it sounded dangerous? “What do you mean?”

 

“Well, any plan or idea that you come up with is more than likely to end in disaster, Merlin.”

 

Merlin huffed in affront, even though his heart wasn’t really in it. “I’ll have you know that I’m more than capable of coming up with ‘plans and ideas’ thank you very much. A couple of centuries does wonders for strategic skill development you know. And besides, even when I was your manservant I was more than capable of saving your sorry arse. Did so on a number of occasions, I seem to recall.”

 

He was walking in front of Arthur so didn’t realise he was being intensely studied until he turned at the base of the stairwell to check that Arthur still actually followed him. The expression on Arthur’s face was contemplative, thoughtful, as it had been so often since Merlin had awoken to find him tumbled into the modern world. “What?”

 

“Nothing, just…” Arthur paused thoughtfully beside him as Merlin swung open the door to the lobby. “You really did, didn’t you?”

 

“Did what?”

 

“Saved me. More times than I know.”

 

Merlin paused in step, at a loss. He blinked awkwardly for a moment, unconsciously catching his lip between his teeth and chewing in embarrassment. “Well, I don’t know if… yeah, a couple of times. Yeah.”

 

“Huh.” Arthur frowned down at his feet. “I guess we have more than your magic to talk about, then.”

 

Merlin swallowed, a little nervously. “Yeah, I think a good chat is long overdue.”

 

They paused just outside of the building, huddling shoulders in the crispness of evening despite their newly acquired layers. The dying sun was draining what little warmth remained to the quiet street, the tall buildings casting shadows over the snow-laden footpaths. Merlin spared a glance back towards his apartment building, taking a moment to work through the smattering of emotions that arose within him with the knowledge that he was leaving it for good with no intention of returning. That the character of Jack Emerson would be as good as gone.

 

Oddly enough, he found it held little sentimentality to him. Jack hadn’t been an active persona. His life hadn’t been spectacular or exciting in the least, and there weren’t any people that he would particularly miss, no one close enough to really call ‘friend’. It was a little unnerving to realise he’d lived there, in that little apartment on Churchwood Street, for over a decade.

 

“So, what’s this idea you have then?”

 

“Hmm?” Merlin turned his attention towards Arthur.

 

“Your idea. You said you had an idea?”

 

“Oh. Yes. I was thinking about the voices you’d heard, the ones who woke you up and sent you to my apartment.”

 

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “What about them?”

 

Shrugging, Merlin became a brisk step away from the apartment building. His legs still wobbled slightly and he wanted little more than to curl up somewhere warm and sleep. But he couldn’t. Not now. “I thought if anyone could tell us what’s going on, why you were brought back _now_ , it would be them. Besides, don’t you want to know who they are?”

 

“You said before that you thought you might know,” Arthur replied, his voice a little accusing. Merlin couldn’t blame him; when he had claimed as much in the midst of Arthur’s tale, he’d withheld further information as being only a suspicion. “You’re actually going to tell me now?

 

It was still largely suspicion on Merlin’s part, the nature of the voices, but he felt confident enough to really consider it now. Which meant he should probably tell Arthur, too. “The voices… I think the first one, the one that woke you up, might have been the Lady of the Lake.”

 

“The Lady of the Lake?” Arthur repeated, his tone dubious.

 

Merlin waved a disregarding hand at him. “It’s a long story. Not now. The other voice, though. That’s the one that I think might be able to give us a little information.”

 

“Who was it?”

 

Merlin pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I can’t be certain but… you said it didn’t sound like a man or a woman?”

 

Arthur shook his head. “No, I couldn’t make it out. It just sounded distinctly _other_. I’m not even sure if it was entirely human.”

 

“That’s what I thought,” Merlin continued with a nod of his head. Not human; that would make sense. Merlin knew that, when it came to dragons, it was particularly hard for anyone except a dragonlord to understand anything about them except that glaringly obvious label of ‘Dragon!’ “No, I’m fairly sure I know who we’re looking for.”

 

“And who might that be? Will they know why I’ve returned?”

 

Merlin paused in step and speech and turned towards Arthur. He wasn’t sure of anything really, not who the voice was nor why Arthur had returned. Because – to Merlin’s knowledge at least – there seemed no particular reason for him to have returned at all. Not that he wasn’t grateful, for he was. More than grateful; Merlin couldn’t express how relieving it was to have Arthur with him again. But even acknowledging that, it simply didn’t make sense.

 

“I don’t know if she’ll know _why_ you’ve returned, but if anyone would it would be her. Her name is Aithusa. She’s the last living dragon in the world.”


	8. Epiphany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you, wonderful commenters! Seriously, such beautiful words I've received. They make my day more than I could possibly say. Thank you, thank you so much!  
> Here's a long one for you. Enjoy!

“I still don’t understand how you can have such confidence that she’ll be here.”

 

Glancing behind him down the ice-encrusted road, Merlin shrugged, disregarding Arthur’s scepticism. His breath blew a cloud of fog into the air when he replied. “I don’t know. Just a feeling.”

 

“Just a feeling,” Arthur mimicked, squinting dubiously. He snorted. “And these supernatural feelings of yours, Merlin; they’re reliable?”

 

“About as reliable as ‘supernatural’ comes,” Merlin replied conversationally, turning back towards the direction they were headed. It was a crisp morning, cold though lacking in falling snow. Colder in Scotland than it had been in Glastonbury, and Merlin was thankful that they’d thought to rug up with several extra jackets when they’d stopped off at the local House of Fraser – not BHS, much to Arthur’s confusion – on their stop off into Bristol.

 

It had been three days since they’d fled the hospital, three days since Merlin had resolutely set aside his life as Jack Emerson and embraced, for the first time in centuries, his true self: the Merlin that Arthur had known. Not to say that he was the same – for he knew he wasn’t; it was impossible for him to remain unchanged – but he felt more himself than he had in years.

 

They’d taken the first days slowly, as much because Merlin was struggling to recover both from his injuries and what little energy stores he could as due to Arthur’s preoccupation with the world at large. For to Arthur it seemed that every aspect of their surroundings was, in equal parts, fascinating and horrifying. He exclaimed at the wonder of cars and trains, at the very idea of aeroplanes, while at the same time professing their impossibility. He was captivated by the concept of telephones, of communicating instantaneously with someone across the country. That it could range further than that Merlin remained close-lipped about; the world seemed just a little too large for Arthur as of yet. Albion had been but a smudge of the face of the globe compared to the sprawling civilisations that stretched across countries.

 

Towering buildings and smooth, flat roads, the awesome structures of metallic bridges spanning across wide rivers, the shops they passed and the houses they glimpsed. All of it seemed enchanting to Arthur, and with his constant state of mixed enthusiasm and incredulity even Merlin found himself drawn into the excitement, swimming from the mind-numbing listlessness that had consumed him for so long. It was strange, as though he was being forced to see everything with new eyes as Arthur pointed and wondered with the amazement of a child.

 

He took it well, too; Merlin had worried, briefly, that it would all be too overwhelming for him, but Arthur had only once requested that they retreat from the chaos of their surroundings.

 

After leaving Merlin’s old apartment with sufficient funds in hand, they’d boarded a bus and let it take them whichever direction for an hour or so before disembarking to seek the nearest motel. Merlin had suggested, and astutely Arthur agreed, that putting some distance between them and St. Albert’s was probably a good idea. Any other priorities – such as outfitting themselves in more appropriate attire – could wait until they were well and truly away.

 

It was getting late by the time Merlin suggested they pick up some dinner from somewhere before hunkering down for the night. Wandering out onto the sparsely shopped streets from the motel, Merlin fell once more into his role as guide and directed them towards the brightly lit take-out fronts.

 

Arthur wasn’t all that floored by the prospect of fast-food vendors. Other than the fact that they were open late into the night, the same had appeared in the streets of Camelot from the backs of caravans and makeshift, temporary stalls in the frequent city festivals. He wasn’t even all that fazed by the people in the shops as Merlin thought he may have been. It was when he exchanged brief words with the young man over the counter of ‘Brill’s Burgers’ that Merlin caught a glimpse of understanding as to how Arthur even conversed.

 

There was a pause, a slight delay between when the cashier spoke and when Arthur appeared to comprehend his words. If Merlin was to describe it exactly, it was almost as though he awaited a translator’s whisper in his ear before replying, except that when he gave his reply it was in English. Fluent, perfectly comprehensible English, without a hint of the archaic Brittanic undertones.

 

It baffled Merlin for a moment; how was Arthur even understanding the English words, let alone speaking them? Except then he realised the very impossibility of the situation at large; Arthur had effectively returned from the dead. Who was to say that whatever force had drawn him back from the other side hadn’t similarly impressed him with some magic to allow him to communicate?

 

It was just a little bit hilarious to watch Arthur approach eating a burger. They took themselves back to the motel to eat in privacy, and Merlin was distracted from settling himself down to his own meal by watching Arthur. It took a monumental effort to prevent himself from laughing aloud.

 

Arthur’s expression as he stared down at the bun and filling spilling out the sides was a mixture of bemusement, disgust and begrudging curiosity. A raucous mix that faded abruptly the moment he bit into it.

 

“Good?” Merlin asked, a smile cracking across his face as he watched Arthur’s eyes widen and his jaw freeze in the act of biting. Arthur didn’t reply, couldn’t speak around his mouthful, but it was answer enough with he tucked into the burger and finished it in truly record time. He finished off the second half of Merlin’s too after a brief not-quite-argument about how much he deemed was appropriate to be eating.

 

“I could snap you in half, Merlin. You should eat more.”

 

“I don’t think I could honestly fit any more in,” Merlin replied honestly. In truth, his belly ached at even how much he’d eaten; he knew he’d been practically starving himself for so long he couldn’t remember. It was natural to assume that his stomach had shrunken accordingly. He’d probably broken every rule of medical recovery from malnourishment in that one sitting, but he found he could hardly care less. His magic would likely patch up any serious problems; it always did. Besides, his belly didn’t ache _that_ badly. Not really.

 

Arthur frowned at him suspiciously. “You’re not just giving it to me because of some misguided idea of ensuring I’m well-fed, are you? Because you do know you’re not my manservant anymore, don’t you?”

 

Merlin snorted, shaking his head, though he couldn’t suppress the touch of warmth that blossomed in his chest at Arthur’s words. Merlin was _not_ his servant? Well, that was a first. “Really, Arthur, would I be so generous?”

 

“True,” Arthur conceded, and accepted the half-eaten burger. He paused once more in the act of raising it to his mouth, however, frowning again. “Wait, you’re not just being derogatory by giving me your scraps, are you?”

 

“Oh, for God’s sake, just eat the burger, Arthur,” Merlin grumbled, but he couldn’t rid the smile from his face. A smile that grew into a laugh when Arthur tried his Coke a little later to the effect of spluttering snorts and coughs that naturally led into a repeated attempt at drinking.

 

It felt good to laugh. It had been too long since he’d done that too. Alien… he’d forgotten he knew how.

 

Arthur was still riding on a bit of a caffeine high the next morning. Merlin made a mental note to curb any potential for addiction immediately, or at to least resort to decaf in future. Maybe it was simply that he’d never experienced even diluted effects before, but Arthur seemed to be wide awake and buzzing from the moment Merlin awoke from a night of poor sleep himself. Apparently Arthur had barely slept a wink, though it didn’t seem to slow him any. It was probably that as much as the actual novelty of the bacon and egg muffin they bought for breakfast that had him proclaiming it to be the best thing he’d ever tasted, ‘even better than the burger’.

 

It had been when they’d first pulled into Bristol, early of the morning after when they’d departed from Glastonbury by train, that the instance of Arthur’s near panic hit. Truth be told, Merlin had expected it to come sooner, so it wasn’t any surprise when they stepped from the train into Bristol and Arthur instantly paled the colour of off-milk, his eyes tightening and face hardening into rigid planes as his eyes took up an immediate scan of their surroundings. Because Bristol was different – vastly different – to the little village they’d just left, and not only in size. The streets were filled with an exponentially greater mass of people, all hastening in the fluid dance of commuters, weaving amongst one another without even a glance of acknowledgement.

 

Merlin had clasped his hand around Arthur’s forearm and without pausing to offer an explanation had tugged him from the chaos of the station. Workers and businessmen, he suspected, heading off for the day for their usual nine-to-five hours. It was a bad time to touch down in a foreign city, much worse for someone unused to the mayhem of modern civilisations and the sheer speed of daily life. Merlin dragged Arthur, narrow eyed and turning his head around him rapidly jerks, and checked into the first hotel they happened across.

 

“There’s… so many people,” Arthur croaked hoarsely as Merlin settled him onto the end of one of the two beds in the room. It was a modestly sized suite, clean and simple in pale colour tones and a wide window that made it appear larger than it was. Spartan furnishing bedecked the single room and the nook of a kitchenette, and the bathroom was barely large enough to turn around in. It was sufficient, however, and there was a television, which, Merlin quickly decided, would be a solid assistant for him in his explanations if they intended to remain indoors for the rest of the day. Which, peering at Arthur’s wan face, he suspected they would.

 

“Yes, there is,” Merlin replied a little redundantly. In actuality there wasn’t really, not compared to somewhere like London or just about any other capitol in the world. Even in old Albion there had been instances where the masses were more tightly packed than had been on the train station.

 

The difference, Merlin realised, lay in that it was simply one abnormality too many for Arthur to adequately deal with. The confusion of multiple unfamiliar individuals – potential threats, Merlin was sure Arthur saw them as – alongside the very structure of the train and station, the foreignness of a new city, and just about every other aspect of their surroundings… it was no wonder that Arthur was having difficulty dealing with it all.

 

They spent nearly an hour sitting and talking, with Merlin attempting to explain in practical terms as much of their brief glimpse of Bristol as he could without being too overwhelming. He spoke of the concept of the mass business industry employing the majority of the populace, of high density living, which led into a tentative explanation of the sheer size of humanity itself and the far off lands they inhabited. That it ranged in the billions and that the world of Albion was so small comparatively caused Arthur’s eyes to widen and a twitch to niggle in his cheek. It would have been comical if Merlin didn’t feel such an upwelling of sympathy for him.

 

The rest of the day was, as Merlin suspected it would be, focused upon settling Arthur into the reality of a larger city and introducing him to the television. After his initial wariness and a brief moment of growing confusion as to the function of the appliance, Arthur was glued to it. He watched the news with wide-eyed attentiveness, barely blinking. That was how Merlin left him when he briefly went in search of enough supplies to sustain them for the day. By the time he returned, Arthur had tentatively progressed to actually changing channels. It was such a small thing, but Merlin felt himself ease in relief at the demonstration of Arthur’s characteristic assertiveness.

 

It was… soothing, almost, to focus on Arthur’s needs. So much easier than thinking of anything else. Merlin actually found the motions comforting.

 

Arthur was a man with a mission for the rest of the day. With the colour returning to his cheeks – which Merlin attributed at least partially to the Coke that he now seemed to have taken a worryingly likening to – Arthur re-immersed himself into sucking up knowledge like a camel guzzling water from a trough. He didn’t speak much, except to ask questions of Merlin and to occasionally, awkwardly, ask of his wellbeing. Before nightfall, he proclaimed that he was feeling slightly more confident about stepping out into the world come the next day.

 

Merlin sincerely doubted Arthur’s newfound knowledge held more than a candle against the bonfire of what most modern first-world citizens possessed, but it hardly mattered. So long as Arthur felt more confident, and could maintain that confidence, Merlin didn’t have to push himself to worry.

 

That second night they were together, Merlin slept even more poorly, despite his exhaustion. With a slightly clearer mind, turning his attention to the source of his problem, he realised just what it was that kicked him awake the moment he drifted off.

 

He was scared to close his eyes. Not for fear of himself, fear that he wouldn’t reawaken, but because he was scared for Arthur. No, not scared _for_ him; Merlin was terrified that, should he fall to sleep, he would awaken to find Arthur gone. To realise that it was all just an extended hallucination and that really, Merlin was still alone, still aimless, still waiting and roiling in his own redundancy. He spent most of the night simply staring from his pillow at Arthur sprawled comfortably upon the bed next to his, sending prayer after prayer to whichever deity felt even the slightest favour for him that Arthur could just _stay_ with him.

 

He never should have been without him. And not for a moment, not in over fifteen hundred years, had Merlin ever felt anything but longing and regret for his king, the man who meant so much to him.

 

Even with his newfound insomnia, however, Merlin was felt better the next day. He felt better by day in general, actually. Arthur seemed less likely to fade away in the brightness of the midmorning sun as they left the hotel and wandered through the sludgy streets in search of a general department store. For his part, Arthur maintained his enthusiasm and raptured attentiveness, eyes raking their surroundings with less suspicion and more curiosity this time. It was a relief to see him easing from his former aggressive discomfort.

 

The House of Fraser wasn’t quite the scraping the barrel of ‘cheap’, but Merlin wasn’t complaining. There had been a time where Merlin had purchased only from secondhand stores for no other reason than he wanted to, so he knew what it was to buy frugally. Not that he needed to; it wasn’t as though he was hard of cash at the moment, and the single store held more than enough of anything they could require by way of clothing. He flicked through hangers, choosing them both half a wardrobe each and largely ignoring Arthur’s input as he disregarded the suggestions that, while wearable by some, would look positively laughable in the combinations Arthur chose. There was something to be said for modern fashion sense, something that Arthur didn’t yet possess for all of his one day spent flicking through the channels of the hotel television may profess otherwise.

 

“And this is the sort of thing that people wear these days, is it?” Arthur asked, sweeping aside the curtain in the dressing room and revealing himself in a pair of fitted jeans and dark, long-sleeved turtleneck. Merlin tilted his head, running his eyes over him appreciatively; it was strange seeing Arthur clad like any other young man that wandered the streets of Britain, but certainly not in a bad way. Far from the swathing in layers and thick cloaks as had been customary in Camelot, the simple daywear hugged his figure to the best favour.

 

“Yes, it is. And you’ll wear it too.”

 

“You’re giving me orders now, _Mer_ lin?” Arthur looked on the verge of folding his arms once more, a habit Merlin had forgotten but was rapidly becoming reacquainted with.

 

He shrugged. “Well, you’d likely be unable to choose appropriately for yourself.”

 

Arthur glanced down at himself, frowning with a disgruntled twist to his mouth. “But it’s so plain. Plainness bespeaks the peasantry. It’s a little insulting.”

 

Arthur spoke unnecessarily loudly in his affront, and Merlin cringed as he caught a glimpse of a young shop assistant smirking as she passed the dressing room, arms laden with clothes. “Plainness bespeaks refinement, actually,” Merlin muttered in reply, emphasising the hush of his voice as though that would actually induce Arthur to speak in the same way. “Something riddled with embroidery would look absolutely archaic.”

 

“Archaic? Wearing clothing that shows skill in needlework?” Arthur raised his eyebrows incredulously, as though that more than every other aspect of modern society was unbelievable.

 

“I think it’s referred to as ‘busy’, nowadays,” Merlin replied, struggling to hold back his amusement. The hand he held with false thoughtfulness across his lips and chin wasn’t doing any good to stamp it down.

 

“Busy? What a ridiculous term for clothing. No, I think I’d rather like something more patterned. You’ve never had particularly good taste in clothing.” Arthur cast a glance down at himself once more. “And these breeches.”

 

“Jeans,” Merlin supplied.

 

“Whatever. They don’t feel right.”

 

“You’ll get used to them,” Merlin assured him, feeling a little like a parent encouraging their child into compliance.

 

Arthur glared at him, likely hearing the condescension in his tone. “They’re loose in all the wrong places.”

 

“No, they’re not.”

 

“Yes, they are.”

 

Merlin sighed, raising a hand to his temple. He could feel a headache coming on, likely exacerbated by the minimal sleep, and didn’t particularly feel in the mood to argue. Amusing though it was. “Arthur, if anyone saw you walking around in a knight’s – or a king’s – style of breeches, or clothes in general actually, they’d likely think you an exceptionally flamboyant poof.”

 

Arthur’s eyes rose from his frowning assessment of his outfit to peer at Merlin questioningly. “A what?”

 

Immediately Merlin felt himself flush. He dropped the hadn from his chin and turned his head away from Arthur’s suspicious stare. He’d take back the offhand comment if he could. “It’s a… just a word people use these days for homosexuals. For… for men who fancy other men.”

 

“Fancy?”

 

Merlin cringed, feeling his cheeks flaming. “Come on, Arthur, you’re not that dense, surely. Work out what it means for yourself.”

 

There was moment of silence. Silence that stretched. And stretched. Merlin couldn’t look at Arthur, feeling his embarrassment shifting to mortification that hit a little too close to home. Finally Arthur emitted a soft sigh of understanding. “Oh, so you mean –“

 

“Yes.”

 

“And that’s… a bad thing? This… poof?”

 

Peering up at Arthur from beneath his eyelashes, too embarrassed to lift his chin fully, Merlin shrugged one shoulder. “Some people perceive it as such, yes.”

 

“But… why?”

 

“I don’t know. They just see it as being wrong. Unnatural.”

 

Arthur’s frown was almost aggressive. “Well, that’s preposterous. What’s so unnatural about a man and a man loving one another? Or a woman and a woman for that matter?”

 

“I really don’t know. It’s just a pretty prevalent belief in this day and age,” Merlin replied quietly. Subdued. And yet… he couldn’t quite quell the flicker of delight that flared within his chest. How could he have even thought that Arthur would have a problem with homosexuality? It had been far from unheard of and unpractised in the sixth century, with only certain religious fanatics truly disputing such unions under a misguided belief that it disregarded the Bible. Such beliefs had manifested in modern years for some reason. It saddened him that some so misinterpreted the scripted words.

 

Arthur thinned his lips indignantly, still frowning, but a moment later appeared to actively set the situation to the side. “Regardless, I want something more suitable to my station.”

 

“Old station,” Merlin rebutted, because they’d been through this briefly already. Arthur appeared to be struggling slightly with the idea that he wasn’t king, prince or even knight of anything anymore.

 

“Be quiet, _Mer_ lin. I’ve decided.”

 

“Arthur, really –“

 

“No, I’m going to have a look for something,” he interjected, striding on bare feet towards the exit of the dressing room.

 

“Whoa, whoa, hold on a second,” Merlin cried, half-laughing as he hastened after Arthur. “I’ll go and look for something if it really bothers you so much.”

 

Arthur paused mid-step and turned his gaze upon Merlin blithely. “No, I don’t think so. We’ve just discussed your tastes in garb, Merlin. I’d rather go myself.”

 

“It’s terribly rude to walk around a shop wearing clothes you haven’t purchased yet,” Merlin overrode him. Which wasn’t entirely true, but he didn’t fancy attempting to explain the concept of in-store security and the likely forcible removal of them from the shop’s walls if they were caught ‘stealing’. “And besides, you’d get lost. Just wait here, I’ll be right back with… something.” And still chuckling to himself Merlin hastened from the dressing room.

 

Wearisome and headache inducing as it may be, Merlin couldn’t deny that he was enjoying himself. Really enjoying himself, for the first time in what seemed an age. That dark cloud, the weight that niggled in the back of Merlin’s head… it was still there, but in that moment it struggled in a growling wrestle with the breath of fresh air that was Arthur and all he entailed. Perhaps because of that, Merlin felt lenient enough to allow Arthur at least one slight deviation from attempting to merge into mainstream society. Sifting through the menswear, he found the most ridiculously patterned jumper and clashing trousers he could find and presented them to Arthur with mocking proudness. Arthur looked as though he suspected Merlin to be teasing him, but accepted them nonetheless.

  
They finished up at the department store shortly after – Arthur taking the longer of the two of them due to, Merlin suspected, an unnecessarily long time spent in front of his own reflection – with only another admittedly extensive stop off at the shoe section. Well, that and a pause passing through the accessory department. Merlin nearly left Arthur behind as they passed it; he didn’t even notice him leave his side until he returned a moment later with a soft, thick strip of crimson scarf in his hand.

 

Before Merlin could question the choice, Arthur had wrapped it one-handed around Merlin’s neck, nearly muffling his mouth in the thick folds.

 

“Arthur, what –?”

 

“You always used to wear them. Those neckerchiefs,” Arthur supplied, his face thoughtful and a little sad in its nostalgia. He offered an almost-smile, however, something he hadn’t seemed quite capable of in the last few days. “You look strange without them.” And he walked past him, leaving Merlin to stare after him with his baskets and folds of new clothing in blank-faced surprise and confusion that faded into that now familiar warmth that flickered in his chest.

 

Two days later, as they wandered the road from Inverness towards the Loch it crouched alongside, Merlin still wore the crimson scarf wrapped around his neck. It brought a smile to his face every time he turned his chin to have it tickle his skin, a reminder of the brief moment in the department store that touched Merlin more deeply than he cared to admit aloud.

 

“What I don’t understand,” Arthur spoke up once more in a voice that could carry across the rings and clashing of a battlefield, “is why an almighty dragon would want to hide itself in a half-frozen lake in the middle of… of…”

 

“Scotland,” Merlin supplied, glancing once more over his shoulder at Arthur. Arthur was wrapped snugly in about three jackets, gloves and a beanie and could have passed for any winter walker on a tourist trip. Not only his appearance, either. In such a short time he’d adapted so well to his surroundings that he had barely flinched more than a handful of times on the long train trip from Bristol to Inverness. He barely jumped at the jolts of the carriages anymore. Despite that, however, Merlin noticed a definite ease settle upon him when they entered the smaller village; he seemed more comfortable surrounded by a fewer number of strangers and the blaring of heavy traffic. “Well, maybe you can ask her that yourself when we see her.”

 

“Are you making fun of me?” With long strides Arthur fell into step beside Merlin once more. He’d only fallen behind in the first place because he’d become distracted with simply gazing across the countryside. A fair enough excuse, Merlin considered, for their surroundings were indeed beautiful; all rolling undulations blanketed in white, distant hills with craggy peaks sprinkled in snow and the pristine flatness of the Loch to their left stretching out endlessly in either direction.

 

“No, not at all. When have I ever made fun of you?”

 

“Ha, you’re hilarious, Merlin.” Arthur rolled his eyes, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “You know very well that I’m not going to actually talk to the dragon.”

 

“You might not want to talk to her, but I’m sure she’ll be more than keen to talk to you.”

 

Arthur frowned at him sideways, which Merlin resolutely ignored in favour of watching his feet descend the slippery path to the lakeside. “I was always under the impression that dragons were more likely to eat you than to hold a civil conversation.”

 

“They’re not dumb beasts, Arthur,” Merlin chided, pausing at the base of the decline. “Dragons hold wisdom than humans could ever conceive. Although…” he paused, cocking his head in mock thoughtfulness, “I wouldn’t say they’re impartial to eating mystical kings arisen from the dead.”

 

Arthur glared at Merlin with such intensity that he couldn’t maintain his thoughtful façade any longer. His face fell into a smirk. “Remind me again why I let you drag me along with you to our deaths.”

 

“Oh, stop being such a drama queen,” Merlin sighed, turning and wandering down the last stretch to the water’s edge. “I’m sure you want an explanation as much as I do. And Aithusa is our best bet if we want to gain some answers. Just keep your fingers crossed that she’s here.”

 

In reality, Merlin knew Aithusa resided in Loch Ness. He’d visited once before, long ago, the last time he’d seen her. Nearly four hundred years ago, he supposed it would be now. It was when she had intoned in complete seriousness that she would retreat entirely from the world of man and shroud herself so deeply in magic that none would be able to sense her presence. Scant few throughout the years had possessed the magical power to peer through her cloaking; thus began the mystical yet not entirely incorrect fable of the Loch Ness monster. It was more accurate perhaps than even the speculative and scientific attribution of a potential plesiosaur in its inhospitable waters.

 

Merlin’s boots toed at the gently lapping shores of the loch. It appeared black and opaque for the sun-sapping darkness of its depths even scarce meters from the shoreline. He felt more than saw Arthur step up to his side and had to admire that, even with his obvious concern – not fear, because _of course_ it wasn’t – of the situation, Arthur wouldn’t back down and leave Merlin alone to confront the dragon.

 

Taking a deep breath of the clean, crisp air, Merlin breathed out his command in the language of dragons, a language unspoken for centuries. “Aithusa! I must speak with you!”

 

His words rung like a gonging bell across the untouched surface of the loch, cascading and bouncing off the distant hills. From the corner of his eye, Merlin saw Arthur turn towards him, face wrinkled in surprise and query, but he didn’t pay it any mind. Not right now. His focus was trained on scanning the surface of the loch for any ripple in the mirror-like darkness. There was nothing, not a sound of a slight shiver, not for unending minutes.

 

He felt her coming before he saw her. Like a rising wave, her presence swelled and grew, spreading as she neared the shore. Then, following a single, muted bubble breaking the surface barely twenty meters offshore, she erupted.

 

A boulder crashing from on high could not have matched the explosive splash of the pure white dragon as she arose not fifty feet. She was glorious, the dragon queen, scales glistening in rainbows of wetness, long neck arching like a swan. Her wings flapped like the bellows of a giant, gusting a whirlwind that battered the air and showered droplets upon Merlin and Arthur. Merlin raised a hand to shield his face from the worst of it though it didn’t do much good.

 

She took a moment to settle herself, easing gently into floating like a proud ship resting on the surface of the loch. Then, with a sweeping curve of her head, she turned her attention towards them. The tendrils of her fleshy whiskers dripped steady streams of water and her crest flexed and fanned in pulses, twitching to shed the miniscule scales around her face of their damp coating. Slowly, like a sea snake slithering through the water, she approached the shore. Ten feet away, and the dragon queen Aithusa loomed above them, as tall as a house and glorious to behold.

 

“You have finally arrived, dragonlord. I have been waiting.”

 

Aithusa’s voice was a deep rumble, barely higher in pitch than Kilgharrah’s had been and thrummed through the air like a physical entity. Merlin bowed his head slightly in greeting. They had an odd relationship, the two of them, as the last dragon and the last dragonlord. Such oddness was due not in the least to his part in the dismal end of her beloved Morgana. Aithusa knew, and admitted, that she had seen the madness within the High Priestess, but that did little to dampen her undying love. Nor did it relinquish her resentment towards Merlin for ultimately ensuring her end. It had been years before they had spoken, and only then because they simply had no one else but each other.

 

Which was not to say they were enemies. Far from it, really.

 

“Thank you for seeing us.”

 

Aithusa hummed deeply in her throat, a warbling sound that Merlin recognised as a murmur of affection. Yes, she might still resent him, but there was fondness there. And not only on her part. “I am unable to deny the call of a dragonlord. Surely you have not forgotten that, young warlock.”

 

“Young?” Merlin chuckled, shaking his head. “I think you are the one forgetting, Aithusa. I’m older than you are.”

 

“Older, perhaps, but not aged. Young your body remains and young your mind remains with it. The wisdom of the old does not settle itself on your bones, Merlin.”

 

“I still don’t understand what you mean by that,” Merlin sighed. They’d attempted the very same discussion on numerous instances over the centuries, but Aithusa’s cryptic attempts at explanation usually amounted to only confusion on Merlin’s part. “Living for fifteen hundred years doesn’t make you old?”

 

“Not in your case, no,” Aithusa replied, another slightly different warble – of amusement this time – quivering through her voice. “You sit outside of the bounds of normalcy, Merlin. Surely you know that by now. And with that pertains a notable lacking in the wisdom department.”

 

She gave another chuckle and Merlin replied with a smile of his own, despite the familiar flicker of indignation at her condescending teasing. He good humour made a pleasant sound in Merlin’s ears, more so with knowing it came from a friend. Kilgharrah and he, they had never shared a relationship quite the same as that he had with Aithusa. It was regretful, for if Kilgharrah had been anything like Aithusa in terms of personality it was an opportunity missed.

 

“It’s the voice,” Arthur suddenly whispered at his side. His tone was faintly awed and more than a little wary. “The voice; it’s the same as the one I heard when I woke up.”

 

Merlin turned curiously towards him, for the first time since Arthur had awoken three days ago having almost forgotten his presence. He opened his mouth to speak but before he could Aithusa turned her attention directly towards Arthur.

 

She dropped her head, stretching her neck towards them until Merlin could have reached up and tugged on the scaly whiskers hanging from her jaw. Her golden eyes trained directly upon Arthur, and Merlin couldn’t help but be impressed that Arthur didn’t immediately shrink from her proximity. He did draw back slightly but visibly caught himself in the act.

 

“Yes, it was I,” Aithusa confirmed, nodding her head in a way that was distinctly reminiscent of a human.

 

“Was it you who awakened me? Or was it the other voice, the woman?”

 

Aithusa shook her head solemnly this time. Her voice was low, contemplative when she spoke. “No, it was not. Nor was it the Lady of the Lake who drew you from your slumber.”

 

“Then… who was it?” Arthur appeared to have placed his uneasiness on hold for the moment in favour of questioning the dragon queen. Contrary to his earlier objections, he was indeed as keen to learn of the reason for his return as Merlin was. Possibly more, for Merlin largely felt that the _reason_ was quite irrelevant; he was just happy – _relieved_ – to have Arthur back. “Do you not know?”

 

Aithusa was silent, pausing for so long that Merlin exchanged a questioningly glance with Arthur, wondering if she were perhaps lost herself to the depths of deep thought. It would not be the first time she had done as much; Aithusa had been alone for centuries, the time since Merlin had last seen her stretching for longer than ever before, and experience had taught Merlin that such isolation often led to one becoming detached from the world around them.

 

She did speak though, eventually. Her voice as slow and deep, the vibrations from her chest sending a shiver of ripples across the surface of the loch lapping around her. “It is not that I do not know, King. It is simply that the force which reawakened you cannot be named as something so specific.”

 

“Force?” Merlin asked, brow creasing in confusion. “You mean magic?”

 

Aithusa turned to him instead. “Indeed. Not a person, but a force, the very force of magic. The magic that breathes life into Albion, that courses through its veins. The magic that promised to rebirth the Once and Future King in Albion’s time of greatest need.”

 

“You called me that before,” Arthur broke in, his gaze drifting towards Merlin. “From the prophecy. The ‘Once and Future King’.”

 

Aithusa replied before Merlin could even open his mouth. “Yes, the prophecy. From my predecessor, Kilgharrah.”

 

“Your predecessor,” Arthur squawked incredulously. Merlin would have found it funny if Arthur hadn’t turned an indignant but also faintly terrified glare upon him a moment later. “You could have told me that the prophecy came from a _dragon_.”

 

Merlin shrugged, refusing to feel apologetic. “You never asked where it came from.”

 

“Oh, so I’m supposed to ask you the nature of your prophecies in the future, am I, instead of just assuming you’d prevail such integral information upon me yourself?”

 

Merlin ignored the question, just as he ignored the very pointed stare that loudly claimed they were going to talk about this later. A gentle jostle of Arthur’s shoulder on his own, however, told him that he was forgiven for any slight that was perceived.

 

There was an expression of something like humour on Aithusa’s face, a smile as accurate as that a dragon could give. “I am gladdened,” she murmured, and it sounded as though she spoke more to herself than to them.

 

“Of what?” Merlin asked.

 

Aithusa closed her eyes briefly, almost reflectively. “I am gladdened that you were saved to experience a reunion with your other half, Merlin.”

 

A flush of shame caused Merlin to drop his chin to his chest, avoiding Aithusa’s gaze. Of course she would know of it, know what he’d tried to… what he’d almost done. He chewed his bottom lip fiercely, struggling to find the words to reply to such a statement, when Arthur interrupted his thoughts. “Other half?”

 

Merlin glanced towards Arthur, meeting his questioning gaze. “It’s nothing. Just something Kilgharrah always used to say.”

 

“And what was that?”

 

Merlin shrugged, turning away from that stare. “It was a strange fancy of his; he always used to call us two sides of the same coin. Halves of a whole. I never really understood what he meant by that.” He glanced at Aithusa in a question of his own, but she only gave an odd shuffle the equivalent of a shrug. He suspected she knew more about that than she was letting on, but chose to overlook it for now. He doubted Aithusa would be any more forthcoming than Kilgharrah had been, spouting riddles of their reliance upon one another and the necessity of such reliance for the survival of Albion.

 

Barely hearing Arthur’s murmured ‘…two sides…’ he shrugged aside his lingering shame and focused upon the reason they had come in the first place. “Aithusa, do you know why?”

 

“Why what, Merlin?” She replied, swaying slightly in her watery seat in a way that Merlin recognised as her being deliberately obtuse.

 

Merlin refused to take the dangling bait. “Why was Arthur awoken? Do you know? Is there a war coming? Is that it?”

 

Another dragon-smile of amusement tweaked Aithusa’s features. “A war? Most certainly not. Not for a long time, I am sure. Or,” she paused, and if a dragon could purse their lips she would have. “Not any more than is already occurring.”

 

Merlin exchanged a confused glance with Arthur, who appeared to have refocused his own attention back on the conversation at hand. “Then… why?”

 

“Not that we’re complaining,” Arthur added. “It was opportune timing, really. But if my return was supposedly intended for the time of Albion’s greatest need, then why now?”

 

Aithusa’s amusement resurfaced again, expanding to rain on Arthur too. “Are you both so blind?” At their continued bafflement, she chuckled. “What makes you think the timing was so opportune, King?”

 

There was silence for a moment. It took longer than perhaps it should have for understanding to dawn on Merlin. “Are you saying, that Arthur returned for –“

 

“I came back for Merlin.”

 

Confusion warred with logical understanding in Merlin’s mind. _No, but…_ He frowned, turning his gaze up towards Aithusa where she waited in pensive silence for them to come to terms with their own conclusions. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

 

“And why is that, Merlin,” she asked, tilting her head to the side with mock bafflement.

 

“Because… because he was supposed to come back for Albion, not –“

 

“Maybe this force – the magic of Albion – thought you were worth saving,” Arthur murmured, quietly but with enough intensity that it stopped Merlin’s stutters short. He glanced towards Arthur and was met by his intense, pale gaze. There was no confusion there.

 

“But… why?” Because it didn’t make sense! Arthur was to return in Albion’s time of greatest need. Not because Merlin had grown despondent and dejected enough, embedded firmly in his own depression, that he had attempted to take his own life.

 

“Obviously you’re important to Albion’s survival too, Merlin,” Arthur drawled. His expression wasn’t deprecating, however, nor even condescending. Rather, a fond smile tugged at his lips, an acceptance of the situation that Merlin couldn’t quite grasp.

 

He turned his gaze upon Aithusa instead, but she was already nodding her head. “The King speaks the truth, Merlin. Two halves of a coin you are indeed. Why would you possibly think that Arthur’s return to save Albion would not require you as a pivotal element in its rescue?”

 

Merlin struggled to untie his tongue. It all seemed so surreal, just like everything else had been over the last few days. Merlin was only beginning to believe that Arthur was truly returned to the world, a belief reinforced by Aithusa’s acknowledgement. It was either that or perhaps Merlin truly had died and passed into the afterlife.

 

And he really, _really_ hoped that wasn’t it.

 

Still, if it _was_ true, if Arthur and Aithusa’s theory was valid… it was a little daunting. To even consider himself important enough to call upon a long-dead king and breath him back to life simply to ensure that Merlin would continue living himself was… “Impossible,” he murmured.

 

“No,” Arthur corrected. “Improbable. Come, Merlin, you’ve been telling me how you’ve saved my life more times than I could count.” He offered Merlin a crooked smile. “Maybe this magic of Albion is hoping you’ll continue your work.”

 

Aithusa chuckled. “Indeed, I believe the King may speak the truth.” She turned fond eyes upon Merlin. “You are just as important to Albion’s survival as Arthur, Merlin. This I truly believe. You are the magic to his humanity; you are _necessary.”_ She paused, sliding down slightly to immerse herself more fully in the water. Undulating waves spread from her sinking form. “I believe, though, that perhaps your humanity was forgotten in the process.”

 

“What does that even mean?” Merlin was more than aware that he sounded faintly desperate in his pleading. He was almost begging with his desire to understand.

 

“You’re only human, Merlin, if a very magical one,” Arthur voiced in Aithusa’s stead. “I think what the drag- what _Aithusa_ is suggesting may have something to do with what happened to you.”

 

Aithusa nodded, taking over, and Merlin felt almost as though he were watching a tennis match, the ball of conversation passing back and forth between the two of them. “Yes, I believe this is true. Because, Merlin,” her voice became so low it was almost an inaudible rumble. “Humans are not meant to be alone.”

 

“I wasn’t alone,” Merlin whispered, hearing the fallacy in his words even as he spoke them. “Not all the time.”

 

“But enough to nearly overwhelm you with loneliness,” Aithusa continued, a deep sympathy in her voice that Kilgharrah would never have been able to obtain. Perhaps it was her upbringing with Merlin, sporadic as it was over the years, but she seemed far more emotive than the old dragon had ever been. “No human is meant to survive alone.”

 

Suddenly, it was too much. The unexpectedness, the weight of Aithusa’s words, of Arthur’s gaze. Or maybe it was just the tiredness induced by sleepless nights. For whatever reason, unbidden, a swirl of tears rose in Merlin’s eyes. Tears that seemed to hold the essence of an unrealised heartbreak that had settled upon him years ago. They began to fall before he could hold them back.

 

Merlin raised a gloved hand swiftly to his face, swiping them away as they fell hotly down his wind-chilled cheeks. “It’s not… I didn’t think that…”

 

It happened so unexpectedly, so quickly that Merlin didn’t have time to comprehend what was happening before Arthur had wrapped him in a tight embrace. It wasn’t like Flora’s gentle hugs, full of joy, lightness and warmth, nor Marcello’s tender, loving holds. Arthur was all sturdiness, reassurance, _presence_ ; as immoveable as a mountain.

 

Merlin stood rigidly, frozen in shock, but Arthur didn’t release him. He simply patting is back in a mixture of awkwardness and heartfelt compassion. After only a moment of shocked immobility, however, Merlin couldn’t hold back the growing ache inside him. With a half muffled sob dropped his forehead onto Arthur’s shoulder. Humiliating as it was, he took comfort from the support the embrace afforded him.

 

Loneliness. So that’s what it was. Something so simple, yet so profound, something he’d known but never understood. It was strangely grounding to finally put a name to the feeling that had slowly but surely drained Merlin of the will to live. And the loneliness… it had been painful in a way completely separate to physical injury. Bone deep – no, _deeper_ – it had flooded him, drowned him, and dragged him beneath its roiling waves like the coiled tentacles of a leviathan.

 

And somehow… just the constant presence of Arthur was enough to urge him to clamber from those depths. The reassurance of his companionship, the knowledge of the purpose he gave him. Even if that purpose was only to be at his side to offer support, to lend a hand when required.

 

Merlin hadn’t realised how much he’d needed that until it was gifted to him.

 

He didn’t know how long they stood like that, Merlin sagging wearily against Arthur and Arthur stoically holding him on his feet. It must have been a while, though, for when Arthur’s patting finally stopped, when they finally disentangled themselves from one another, Merlin felt his muscles protest from stiffness. His body was already protesting the very act of being vertical and was making its indignation over his immobility known. His tears had stopped falling long ago, but he still scrubbed at his cheeks, ducking his head to hide the embarrassed flush he felt sure flamed in them.

 

He peered nervously at Arthur from beneath his eyelashes. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. His voice came out hoarse. Arthur only shrugged, his eyes still fixed upon Merlin as though waiting for the next moment he may need to swoop in and offer a supportive embrace. It almost drew a laugh from Merlin, though not quite.

 

Slowly, Merlin turned his attention back towards Aithusa. She regarded them both with an unreadable expression, her golden eyes glistening faintly in the mid-morning sun. When Merlin opened his mouth to speak, however, she beat him to it.

 

“I believe I am not wrong in assuming that your situation makes a little more sense now?”

 

Pausing to consider, to really consider – because no, not really. It still seemed entirely unbelievable – Merlin nodded shortly. “I don’t really know why, but I suppose if you’re confident in your understanding then that’s good enough for me. You’ve always been more in touch with magic than me.” He laughed dryly. “Creature of magic, I suppose.”

 

“Don’t short-change yourself, Merlin. You are as much a creature of magic as I,” Aithusa hummed warmly. She dropped her head down towards him and, with a motion that caused Arthur to inhale sharply, touched her nose lightly onto the side of his head. Or, well, lightly for her. It still nearly rocked Merlin off his feet, nudged by the smooth slickness of her drying snout.

 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Merlin smiled feebly in reply. “Coming from you, especially.”

 

“And so you should. Never underestimate yourself, Merlin. It has been, and will continue to be, one of your greatest weaknesses. And you must be aware of such weaknesses to overcome them when Albion truly does need you.”

 

“Need both of us,” Merlin murmured, glancing toward Arthur. Arthur only nodded his head in solemn agreement; he seemed to be taking the situation impossibly well, simply accepting Aithusa’s words and his apparent role in the future of his dead kingdom. Merlin would have been worried had he not seen such similar resilience in him over the past days.

 

“Yes. Both of you,” Aithusa agreed, her tone becoming grave in a way that it rarely had throughout long history of their relationship. It was as though she spoke from an otherness, with a deep knowledge, as Kilgharrah had when his voiced his supposed prophecies. “For it will come, Merlin. It will. I do not know when – perhaps centuries from now – but you will be needed. The both of you.”

 

“Centuries?” Arthur spoke up, his voice questioning. “How is that even possible?” He glanced towards Merlin, who raised an eyebrow in his own question. “Merlin’s magical, I can understand – no, I can accept that he’ll still be here in centuries. But me?” Arthur shook his head ruefully. “ _I_ am only human. Humans don’t have such longevity.”

 

“Perhaps not,” Aithusa murmured, her voice still distant. Her gaze drifted, turning southerly in, Merlin knew, the direction of the land that was once Albion. “But you are necessary, Arthur. Rest assured that when the time comes, when you are again required for the survival of the eternal kingdom, you will be there.”

 

There was a sense of finality to Aithusa’s words, and Merlin knew before she swung her head away from them, turning in a wave of churning motion, that she would say no more. Drifting within the throughs of her own current, the dragon queen paddled away from the shoreline, arched her neck and, in the graceful dive of a plunging cormorant, rolled fluidly beneath the surface. A whirlpool swirled in her wake, coiling fast, then slow, then finally drifting to a stop. Within minutes, any trace of her presence had disappeared.

 

“Well, that raised about as many questions as it answered.”

 

Merlin glanced towards Arthur, observing the exasperation that hooded his eyes and tightened his jaw. Funny, how he could change from being so wary of the ‘fabled dragon’ one moment to disgruntled and petulant at her open-ended comments in the next. A smile drew itself across Merlin’s face once more, despite the touch of worry, of foreboding, that remained in his chest at Aithusa’s lack of complete enlightenment. It worried him, the not knowing, the haziness of the future and the prospect that Arthur might… that he could someday again…

 

Something in Merlin’s face must have given his thoughts away. Taking a half step towards him, Arthur leant forward to place himself deliberately in Merlin’s line of sight. Merlin couldn’t look away, even had he wanted to. “Merlin, don’t think that.”

 

“I’m not –“

 

“Because I swear, if you even think about taking your own life – even _think_ of it – when I return again – because I will – I will personally fetch you back from the afterlife to drag you through hell.” Arthur’s expression was stony, completely serious.

 

Merlin gave a humourless cough of laughter. “Is that so?”

 

“Yes, it is.”

 

Shaking his head, Merlin rolled his eyes in an attempt at driving away the sombre cast to the situation. It didn’t sit well with the beauty of the lakeside ringed in unbroken snow, nor the clean snap of the chilling breeze. “Well, how can I refute that?”

 

Arthur stared at him for a moment, his face still hard, before it cracked in a crooked smile of satisfaction. “You can’t. I always get my way, Merlin. You should know that by now.”

 

“Oh, I do, believe me. Some things are pretty hard to forget.”

 

“Besides,” Arthur continued, as though Merlin hadn’t spoken. He turned on his heel and began a slow wander back up the slippery slope in the direction of Inverness. “We’re – what was it? – two sides of the same coin.” He glanced back over his shoulder at Merlin, still standing rooted to the ground and half-turned towards the uneven shoreline, and raised and eyebrow. “How can I be expected to save Albion in its time of greatest need without my other half?” And shaking his head he strode up the hill.

 

Merlin stared after him for a moment, frozen in wide-eyed stupefaction. Slowly, a cheek-aching smile stretched across his face, the widest he’d had in… in _forever_. “You can’t, you prat! That’s why I have to stick around to pull your arse out of whatever fool-hardy situation you manage to get yourself into!”

 

Arthur’s laughter echoed across the loch, music to the ears as Merlin urged his weary legs into a slow run up the hill, following in Arthur’s footsteps.


	9. Finally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am SO sorry for the delay in update. Work got ahead of me and I completely lost track of time.  
> So yes, this is the last chapter. Of sorts, I guess. Short and sweet, I guess, so I'm sorry about that if it infuriates anyone. I do sort of have an idea of a sequel in mind, although it is quite thematically different and undeniably still just an idea. I generally don't like putting out chapters when I haven't at least finished the first draft yet, and - given that my muse if being remarkably and frustratingly silent on the matter - it will probably be a while before I start.  
> Sorry about that too.  
> But thank you everyone who commented and kudos-ed! It is so appreciated, I can't tell you how much! Thank you so, so much!!!

_New World, 685 N.C._

 

It was a sound like thunder, yet immeasurably louder. It rippled across the barren plains, trembling the feeble trees and weary, desiccated shrubs. It crashed with the force of a tsunami into the single building standing alone upon the vast, empty landscape.

 

The thunder pulsed in rolls and waves, rising and falling in volume like a deep, rumbling siren. There was no way that any creature alive could have missed the invasive tremors, the assault upon the eardrums.

 

The single building was small, squat and built of darkened steel. It hugged the hard-packed dirt, clinging to it like a child to its mother’s skirts, tucking its chin from the glaring sun overhead. To an untrained eye, it may have appeared deserted, an abandoned bunker that had somehow survived being forgotten and maintained a roof and four walls to withstand the merciless weather that rained upon it.

 

So it may have been considered surprising when, to the sound of the thunder, the thick, reinforced door swung outward and released a torrent of men and women into the early morning light. Tall and short, young and old, clad in homespun shirts and worn trousers, there were dozens of them. Far too many to have realistically fit within the four walls of the bunker. All of them, without exception, carried a strength and determination to their step, even as faces turned questioning in every direction, most with hands clasping over ears and squinting in search of the source of the sound. Determined even as they froze, eyes snapping up towards the sky as the reality of the situation made itself known.

 

At the very front of them all, the first to have raced from the bunker, two men peered thoughtfully at the sky without the confusion and wariness of their fellows. For all that they appeared only half clad and dishevelled, neither wearing shoes and their clothing rumpled, hair askew, they wore readiness like a suit of armour. In the hands of the dark-haired man, a thin staff of polished grey metal, spider webbed with a glistening network of silver, breathed ‘weapon’ as loudly as would have a sword. Hefted upon the shoulder of the golden-haired man, a long-nosed, bulky laser-gun rested easily, similarly intimidating but without the obscurity of function of the weapon in his partner’s hands.

 

Soldiers, they were. It was evident to any who cared to pay them half a glance.

 

“It’s about time,” the dark-haired man murmured, quiet enough that only his companion would hear. “They’ve been hanging over our heads for years now. I’m surprised it took this long.”

 

The golden-haired man grunted his agreement. “True. Would have been better if they’d waited a couple more months, though.”

 

“Oh, well, I’m sure if you asked them nicely they’d hold off their siege for a little while,” his companion replied, turning with a wide, crooked grin as he swung his staff around his shoulders, propping both arms on either end as though he were locked into medieval stocks. Far from the wariness and growing foreboding of the men and women spaced immobile behind him, he seemed eager, almost enthusiastic.

 

“Shut up, you idiot,” the golden-haired man muttered, but his mouth too quirked in a small grin. “You know what I mean.”

 

The dark-haired man bowed his head in a nod. “I do. And I agree. But we can’t choose the timing of our wars, otherwise there wouldn’t be wars in the first place. I know it’s been a while since you’ve actually fought any battles, but surely you haven’t forgotten that much.” His grin was still in place and only broadened further as his companion rolled his eyes.

 

“It hasn’t been that long. What do you call the War of the United Coast?”

 

“Hardly even a war. A tiff amongst barbarians at best.”

 

“It’s still called a war, though.”  


“Yes, by the barbarians.”

 

They both snorted their amusement before turning as one towards the sky again. Humour quickly died, though the determination remained. “Are you ready, King of Albion? If there was ever to be a time of greatest need, I’d lay my money on it being now.”

 

The gold-haired man nodded at his companion’s words. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

 

They fell into silence, eyes fixed upon the blood-red sky streaked with lines of white smoke and startlingly bright plumes of violet. Not a word more was spoken as the vanguard finally faded into view from far above, baring it’s face in a clear indicator of attack that was only punctuated by the whirring whine of it’s decent.

 

The war had finally begun.


End file.
